


Like James Bond

by sebastian2017



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Greg-centric, M/M, Pining, Slow Build, but they're there in the background, made up spy stuff, more paintballs than is probably necessary, not too many Kingsman characters, swearing (lots of it tbh), they're all in their early 20s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-04-29 07:20:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5119871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sebastian2017/pseuds/sebastian2017
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg agrees to join the recruitment process for Kingsman for one reason and one reason only: to satisfy his curiosity. He stays for two. One is the undeniable awesomeness of feeling like James Bond.The second is the handler in training with a ridiculous name (Mycroft? No way that's not one of the Arthurian codenames) that catches his eye.</p><p>a.k.a.: The Mystrade Kingsman AU your soul has most definitely been craving. Greg is an agent in training and Mycroft is a handler in training. There are cute spy shenanigans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shady Uncles in the Mafia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have about half of this AU written out already and as you can see, it's expected to be ten chapters. I'm guessing it'll be about 25k by the end of it. Updates will come every Saturday.

Life goes on. The UN – or rather, the little that was left of it – is nowhere near figuring out the global death count, suicides have skyrocketed in the last two weeks, wounds are only just beginning to heal, and the entirety of the world still reeks of dried blood and decomposing bodies. But life goes on. The last of the bodies have just been cleaned off the street, household utilities seem to be back for good, and the world is slowly, ever so slowly, but surely rebuilding itself. The world had been utterly torn apart in just the few minutes that it had been overcome with rage and aggression, but humanity is on its way to proving its unwavering resilience as it takes together all the broken pieces and painstakingly stitches them back together until life gains a semblance of normality once more.

And perhaps that’s what hurts the most. Greg is sure that it’s what hurts the most for _him_ , anyways. Pain and anger are simple emotions. Pain at losing so much. Anger at whoever the fuck made the world turn on itself. Pain at seeing the absolute worst of humanity and the darkest corners of himself. Anger at God, who he’s always had so much faith in but it has to be one fucked up god to let the world destroy itself. Pain and anger he can do. That’s simple. It’s pure, it’s raw, and it fills him to the bone, leaving no space for the more pesky feelings. Like guilt. Guilt when he thinks of all the people he killed in his rage – ~~just a few minutes of it, too, which terrifies him, because what the fuck would he have done if it had lasted longer?~~ Guilt at having been away from his family, not being able to protect them – ~~the rational part of his brain knows that if he’d been with his family, it would have been worse; their blood on his hands instead of the blood of strangers at some football game.~~ Guilt that shakes his very core when he finds himself making steps towards moving on because he’s lost half his family, he should still be inconsolable, not looking towards rebuilding the world around him – ~~even though he knows that the friends and family he lost would want him to keep looking forward, not let his grief tear him apart until he becomes yet another of the thousands who have committed suicide because of the weight of what they’d done.~~ As the days pass and the world rebuilds, the pain and anger dissipate more and more until all Greg feels is guilt. The more he moves on, the more he misses the blinding pain and anger and the more he misses it, the more he decides that he hates the way life goes on after tragedy.

It’s still hard, of course. It’s hard for everybody and no one is pretending otherwise. It’s only been two weeks and there are times that he can almost forget it all happened. Greg’s lost track of the amount of times he’s set too many plates down for dinner or turned to a no longer there little sibling to ask their opinion on something or looked at the time and gone to tuck one of the younger ones in only to remember that there’s no one to get to bed. It’s the little things that hurt the most and they hurt no less now, a few weeks later, than when it had first happened. His mother took it the hardest, though, practically breaking down at losing so much of her family, so Greg couldn't let himself mope for too long. His father had died in the massacre and Greg, along with his remaining older sister, took upon themselves to keep what was left of their family together, fed, and safe. It is, for the most part, a thankless job – their mother too traumatized to take note of much going on around her, their little brother too young to fully grasp the magnitude of everything going on around him, and their grandmother too busy trying to care for her daughter-in-law and grandson – but they were willing to do it to begin the long road towards a normal life again.

Before this whole mess had gone down, Greg had been in the middle of getting a degree in Criminal Justice, in hopes of joining Scotland Yard and becoming a detective. Now, with so much of the police force dead, NSY was taking in anyone who volunteered, without so much as a glance at what a few weeks earlier would have been non-negotiable qualifiers. Most of the basic services around the world, places like hospitals and police stations and anything needed to keep a society from collapsing in on itself, had lost far too many personnel and need all the help they could get, regardless of whether that help was professionally trained or just someone who had taken a crash course the same day they'd shown up to volunteer. They simply couldn't keep running without taking in dozens upon dozens of untrained volunteers and the world had gone to shit enough that no one protests if the person treating their wounds was an inexperienced volunteer. It was better than bleeding out on the street like had happened to thousands of people in the immediate aftermath of the chaos. Greg hadn't even waited a full twenty-four hours before going over to Scotland Yard to volunteer his help in any way he could. The second the last of the blood had been scrubbed off himself and his clothes, Greg had left the flat in his older sister's care and gone down to the Met as a volunteer.

He had helped clean bodies for the first week. After that, Greg was sure he could handle anything the world threw on him. He's right about that. When the bodies are finally gone, he's moved back and forth between going out to handle petty things like traffic duty and manning the front desk. Today, he's in charge of the front desk. It's not the most entertaining of jobs, but someone has to do it. He's sitting in the high chair at the desk, doodling away on a notepad. A phone rings in the back and the teenage girl manning the front desk with him goes to the back to answer it. Not ten seconds after she'd left, someone comes in through the door and Greg looks up. He barely suppresses a groan.

Whoever is currently walking up to the front desk can't be much older than Greg is, but he's dressed like a posh bastard and Greg's experiences with posh bastards walking up to the front desk have all been rather terrible ones. More often than not, it's some selfish prick coming in to complain that people were camping out on his lawn or that his kitchen had been looted. The Yard was trying to tell them all, as politely as possible, that they had bigger things to worry about than people whose homes had been destroyed and were looking for a place to rest their heads or for a way to feed their families. The rich bastards always wound up huffing for a bit before leaving, but they were always a pain to deal with.

"Here to report a robbery, then?" Greg asks, clicking his pen open and shut a few times as he looks up at him. Bit young to be wearing a suit that expensive looking, but that was old money for you.

The man raises an amused eyebrow and Greg can't help but feel that he probably practices that in front of a mirror every morning. "Robbery? Nah, what I'm here for, I reckon you'll be able to help me with. No need for no third parties or nothing. Gregory Lestrade, yeah?" he asks, sticking his hand out. "Y'can call me Eggsy."

"Uh, yeah. Just Greg, though." Greg shakes the offered hand, brow furrowing in confusion. He can't think of a single reason why someone he doesn't know would come in here asking for him. Especially not someone who sounds and looks rather suspicious. "Did my Mum send you to come fetch me or something?" Greg wouldn't have even considered it if it wasn't for the fact that the man's - Eggsy, apparently? - accent very obviously doesn't match up with all the fancy clothes he's wearing.

"I'm here 'bout... an opportunity. A job offer." Eggsy says and Greg waits for an explanation, but nothing comes. If he'd thought that this was suspicious before, Greg was obviously underestimating how shady a twentysomething in a suit could be.

Greg scoffs, looking over his shoulder and wondering what the fuck is taking Sarah so long with the phone. He would prefer to not be alone when he deals with suspicious blokes who know his name, but it's clear that his coworker isn't coming back to the front desk anytime soon. “I’m not a gangster or some shit like that.” he warns, frowning.

"Obviously not." Eggsy scoffs. "My organization ain't got no jobs for criminals. It'd be like working here at the Yard. Just... bigger." He pulls his mobile out of his pocket, checking the time. "Your shift here's over in a minute. Why don't we go out for coffee, yeah? It wouldn't hurt. Not like you've got anywhere to be."

Greg wants to snap back that maybe he does have somewhere to be, but he's far too interested in finding out how this stranger knows his name and shift hours and it's true that he's not heading anywhere after this. He looks up at the clock on the wall and sees that yeah, his shift really is about done anyway. "Fine. I've gotta go sign out and then you’ve got ten minutes. And I'm not above breaking your nose if you're in the Mafia or some shit like that."

"I'd expect nothing less, bruv." Eggsy laughs, but Greg pays him no mind. He's already gone to the backroom to sign out. Sarah's already signed out and Greg feels a twinge of annoyance as he wonders why she'd left early without telling him. It was only a few minutes, but it still would have been nice to know.  He’s officially done for the day a few moments later and he grabs his jacket before going back outside.

"You're paying, mate. Just in case that part wasn't clear." Greg warns, walking past him and heading out the front entrance.

Eggsy follows at his side and makes an attempt at chatting, mentioning something about football teams and what a shame it is that the leagues took such a loss and need to rebuild. Greg gets him to stop talking by speeding up and leaving him a few steps behind. Two weeks hasn't been enough to make London stop reeking of blood and Greg wants to be away from the smell as quickly as possible. Most of the shops are still boarded up, destroyed in the chaos, but there's the odd one out every once in a while that is open. Most often than not, they're barely functional, only working to the barest of standards, but they serve their purpose. Eggsy and Greg duck into the first functioning coffee shop they run into. They both get their drinks and sit at a table in the corner. The silence drags on for a few minutes and when Greg can start seeing the bottom of the Styrofoam cup he's drinking out of, he considers just getting up and leaving. The other man hasn't said a word since they've arrived and this is clearly a waste of his time. He's still curious, of course, but not so curious as to stick around for much longer. Just as he's about to push his chair back and stand up, Eggsy speaks up again.

"So, Greg." Eggsy pauses just after he starts talking and his eyes stop focusing on Greg, looking instead at what seems to be a fixed point in his glasses, or perhaps like he's reading something, but when Greg looks over his shoulder, there's nothing there. Eggsy continues speaking almost as quickly as he'd paused and Greg forgets about wondering what he was reading. "You had an uncle, yeah? Rupert?"

Greg had had an Uncle Rupert, that much was true. He had been odd, but nice enough. Supposedly, he'd worked as a tailor. No one in the family had ever believed that, though. No one ever saw much of Uncle Rupert because he was always travelling abroad, which led to suspicions as to whether he was involved in some sort of illegal business. No one had ever brought it up around Rupert and despite the suspicions, Greg has some fond memories of his uncle. He'd taught him how to hold his own in school yard fights and always brought back presents from all the places he traveled to. Despite this, Greg doesn't really know much about his uncle. Rupert's visits had been few and far in between and he never revealed much about himself. Practically all he know about his uncle, other than the supposed job as a tailor, is stories from childhood his father used to tell him.

Seeing recognition in Greg's eyes, as well as noticing that Greg isn't going to speak up any time soon, Eggsy resumes. "He died when everythin' went to shit a couple o' weeks ago. Means we've gotta few spots to fill up at work an' since he spoke so highly of you and all, talkin’ ‘bout proposin’ you for a job in the near future an’ all, we was hopin' you'd come down for an interview. Any other time, your sponsor would fetch you himself, but with everythin’ that happened, we’ve had to get a bit lenient to fill up the positions."

"An interview... at the 'tailor' shop he worked at?" Greg leans back in his chair, sounding both incredibly unimpressed and unbelieving. Sponsors? It sounds more like joining a gang than getting a job at a tailor’s.

"Yeah. That's the one." Eggsy agrees, smirking at Greg's obvious skepticism. "It's down at Savile Row. Why don' we finish up here an' head on over?"

Greg can't help it. He laughs. "Savile Row? You mean there's an actual shop? Bull shit."

"Nah, bruv, it's true! It's a real nice shop. I'll show it t'you. Give you a private tour an' all." Eggsy offers, already standing up from his seat.

The same thing that got Greg to this coffee shop in the first place is what makes him stand up with him. He's just too curious for his own good. It's Savile Row, well known street and just about the opposite of shady and suspicious. What's the worst that could happen? "All right, then. Savile Row. Tailoring shop. Let's see it."

Eggsy grins, drains the rest of his coffee and heads out the front door. "C'mon then, Greg. Tailors ain't open all day, y'know."

They make the walk to Savile Row, in silence for most of it, but Greg is still surprised when they stopped in front of an honest to god tailor shop. An expensive one, by the looks of it. Eggsy opens the door and ushers Greg inside. He's still suspicious, but at least now there’s an actual tailor shop so whatever it is that Eggsy and his Uncle Rupert and whoever else is trying to hide, at least they’re putting effort into the cover up. Greg takes a seat in an expensive looking arm chair, looking around. He doesn’t know much about tailor shops, but this does seem to be one just like any other.

“You didn’t really know my uncle, yeah?” Greg makes it a question, but he already knows the answer. His uncle’s name sounds unfamiliar on Eggsy’s tongue and back at the café, the lines he’d given him about sponsors and proposals sounded too rehearsed, too much like they were being fed to him through one ear and he was just spouting them back out for him. Greg believes that they work in the same profession – Eggsy has the same air of confidence and mystery and carries himself in much the same way as his uncle used to – but he doubts that they’d ever actually crossed paths.

Eggsy pauses and Greg reckons he’s probably thinking of what the appropriate response is, as though the hesitation isn’t enough. He takes off the glasses he’s been wearing all afternoon and tucks them away into his pocket before shaking his head. It’s not lost on Greg that there’s no squinting or excessive blinking or anything at all to imply that Eggsy’s vision has suffered from removing the glasses. If he was suspicious before, know Greg is sure that the glasses serve purposes beyond correcting vision.

Seeing that Eggsy wasn’t going to offer anything more than that shake of his head, Greg speaks up again. “Why’d you come fetch me, then? If you’re really here because he spoke so highly of me or whatever, why not send someone who actually knew him? Someone who was actually there when he was supposedly talking about me. If you’re all just tailors, I don’t see any reason why someone who actually knew him would be too busy to come fetch me. Don’t know anyone who needs a suit that badly so soon after V-Day.”

Eggsy snorts, rolling his eyes. “Oh, come on, bruv. You know we ain’t really tailors. You ain’t stupid,” he says. “An’ I went to fetch you meself because I was more ‘approachable.’ Most of these other guys look like posh pricks. Nice enough when you get to know ‘em, but they still look like wankers.”

“Huh.” Greg had already been sure that tailor was a cover up for something, but it’s still nice to get a confirmation. He has one question answered, but it leads to many more. "So if you’re not tailors, what’re you then? Gang? Drug cartel?”

Eggsy smirks, opening the door to a dressing room and stepping inside. “Why don’t you come find out?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that whole 'your uncle recruited you by proxy lol' is the biggest recuitment ex machina ever but guess what? not a single fuck was given the day this was written  
> Also, there's literally no reason for Eggsy to be the one to fetch Greg (instead of some minor Sherlock character repurposed for the role) other than Eggsy is bae and whenever Eggsy is an option, you should definitely go with Eggsy 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Happy Halloween and see you all next Saturday with chapter 2. <3 Mycroft and Greg meet in that one (sort of)


	2. Puppies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg makes a friend, gets a puppy, and sees someone that catches his eye in the cafeteria.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to my friend who let me use her dog's name lmao
> 
> And thank you to everyone who left kudos and comments to the last chapter! I'm finishing up chapter 7, so just like two more chapters to write before you get biweekly updates! :)

Greg follows. Of course he does. Curiosity has gotten him this far and there’s no point in stopping now. The floor begins to descend and Eggsy is going on and on about spies. Fucking spies! Greg would have never in a million years thought that his uncle was a spy. It’s absolutely mental and the thought of training to be a spy is just about the scariest thing he’s ever thought of but it’s also the coolest, by far. Thinking of his family back home almost makes him back out, but he knows his sister can take good care of them and fuck it all, he’s twenty-three. He’s allowed to make selfish decisions sometimes. Especially when those selfish decisions lead to him becoming a spy.

Eggsy drops him off at bunk where there’s a handful of other recruits. Greg puts on his brave face, but he can’t help but feel horribly out of his element. He hadn’t even known that this place existed until just under an hour ago and the only reason he’s here is because his uncle had made some comments about him. There’s doubt biting away at his confidence. When he was in secondary school, his father had often bragged to his coworkers about how good Greg was at football. That didn’t mean Greg could just pick up and go play football for the Premier League, so why was this any different? However, most of the other recruits in the room look as scared as he does. They’re hiding it behind fabricated cockiness, but the fear is still there. If they’re all as nervous and frightened as he is, they must all be at least more or less on the same level. Greg lets that thought comfort him.

One of the other recruits, a young, bright looking fellow, approaches him and sticks his hand out. “I’m Dimmock. Ian Dimmock.” Dimmock gives him a bright grin.

“Uh, Greg Lestrade.” Greg shakes his hand, undeniably startled by the friendliness. He’d expected a room full of potential spies to be silent and steely.

“Greg?” Dimmock nods, sitting at the edge of one of the beds. “You got family here? My dad’s an agent and he says they almost always employ a strict rule of nepotism. Putting a bit of faith in genetics, I guess. Bit shitty, that is. Just keeping things in the family. Ah, well. Guess we can’t argue with spies.”

Dimmock pauses only just long enough for Greg to nod and agree before he starts rambling again. Greg gets a feeling that Dimmock is the type of person that can talk on and on without giving the opportunity so much as a break to breathe. Greg doesn’t mind it, though. Dimmock is talking a lot about himself and his father, therefore by proxy, he’s giving Greg some Kingsman 101. It does wonders to keep him calm as the room slowly fills with more recruits and, eventually, they’re joined by someone much older and much more official looking. Greg would wager that the man is an agent.

Sure enough, he calls them all to attention and stands by the front of the room. “I’m Agent Lamorak. To begin with, I’ve been here seventeen years. I was off running missions for Kingsman before you lot were out of nursery school. You’ve been here five minutes and you may as well still be in nursery school, for all I care. You’re nothing. I’m not here to be your friend. I’m here to make your life hell and if any one of you can’t take that, I suggest you go tell your daddies that you won’t be following in the family footsteps and you leave right now. Is that understood?” Lamorak pauses, both for everyone to mumble their ‘yes, sir’s, and to take a moment to glare at them all from behind thick, wire framed glasses that look like Eggsy’s, if Eggsy’s glasses had been made at some point in the 70’s. Lamorak goes on to have them all fill in body bags before leaving with a huff.

There’s an intimidated hush across the room. Mostly, they’re quiet as they fill out their personal information on their body bags. At most, people are sharing a mumble or two. Even Dimmock is quiet and he hadn’t shut up since he’d first said hello to Greg. Greg has a feeling the mood will remain like this for the rest of the night, so he sets his attentions on settling in for the night. There’ll be plenty of time to socialize later when they’re not all shaken by threats and body bags.

 

 

\------------

 

 

Someone was dead. Greg hasn’t been here at Kingsman for even twenty-four hours and someone is dead. Drowned right in front of them. It’s jarring to say the least. Greg feels inklings of doubt in his decision to go through with this, but it doesn’t matter now. It’s too late to go back, even if he is terrified. They’d been moved to a new dorm, but they’re all too shaken to sleep. They lie in bed quietly until the morning alarm pulls them from their beds and from their fears. They’re being recruited by a spy agency. They can’t show up to their first day with shaking hands and red rimmed eyes. (Besides, the fact that V-Day hadn’t claimed them as a casualty is a testament to the fact that they’ve all lived through their fair share of violence. What’s one more death when they’d already witnessed plenty?)

They eat breakfast in silence, sitting at a table tucked away in a corner of a cafeteria bustling with activity despite the early hour. After breakfast, when they’re given a lecture by Lamorak on the importance of teamwork, Greg’s not surprised. It makes sense after their fuck up that night had left someone dead. When they spend an hour in the gym and then another hour running laps around the manor, Greg’s not surprised. They’re training to be spies, after all, and Greg’s seen just about every James Bond movie in existence. He knows that it entails plenty of running about and kicking ass. When they get led to several crates of puppies, however, he’s completely taken aback. Puppies? This is a spy organization, innit? They’re supposed to be scary and intimidating. Just about the complete opposite of puppies. Lamorak gives them a long speech about needing to learn teamwork and taking their puppies with them wherever they go. Still looking confused, the whole lot of them step forward and pick their puppies. Greg picks a friendly looking German shepherd and goes to stand back in formation next to Dimmock and the golden retriever he’d picked out. A few of their fellow recruits are still picking out puppies so they have a few moments to just chat.

 “So, what’re you going to name him?” Dimmock asks, crouching down to look at Greg’s puppy. “Mine’s called Nala. Like from Lion King!”

“Mine…” Greg pauses, looking down at his German shepherd. His family had never owned any dogs and Greg has no clue what a good name for one would be. “Well, I always wanted a goldfish when I was a kid. Can I call him that? Goldfish?”

Dimmock snorts and laughs before stopping abruptly when he realizes Greg isn’t joking. “Really? You want to name your dog Goldfish? I suppose I don’t see why not.”

Greg nods and leans down to scratch Goldfish’s ears for a moment before Lamorak calls them all back to attention again. They have to go run another round of laps, this time with their puppies in tow. Greg is glad to see that Goldfish is willing to run alongside him without much coaxing. A few of the other recruits, Dimmock included, are having trouble convincing their pups to run and are losing pace because of it. Lamorak stands where he can supervise their running, spending the entire time glaring at the ones whose dogs are slowing them down. At this point, Greg is unsure as to whether Lamorak is actually glaring at them all the time or if perhaps his face is just eternally stuck like that. It seems almost unnatural for one person to be upset so often, but Lamorak glares his way through their laps and when he dismisses them for lunch, he does so with a scowl and an upset grumble.

They go to the same cafeteria they’d had breakfast in, though now it’s far busier, since it isn’t an ungodly hour of the morning. Their puppies come along with them and all of them cause quite a ruckus, tugging against their leaches to try to go steal some food and barking to show their displeasure when they’re not allowed any of what their masters are eating. Apparently, this isn’t all that odd because none of the Kingsman employees sharing the cafeteria with them look even the slightest bit confused. In fact, Greg can see them all sharing amused, knowing glances. Their amusement did precious little to ease his annoyance when Goldfish manages to wriggle out of his collar and run off to a table at the other end of the cafeteria. Greg casts a longing look at his food before getting up to run after Goldfish. He can hear Dimmock laughing, but Greg can’t blame him. He’d laughed mercilessly when Nala had been slowing Dimmock down, so this makes them just about even.

He catches up to Goldfish when the pup stops at a table to chew on the leg of someone’s trousers. Greg is absolutely mortified as he crouches down to tug Goldfish away. Goldfish starts bloody _howling_ in protest and if Greg hadn’t had everyone’s eyes on him before, he certainly does now. Greg tucks Goldfish under his arm and makes sure he can’t wriggle away before looking up at the poor sod who’d gotten his trouser leg chewed up. Greg has to hold back a sigh of relief when he sees that it’s just some bloke more or less the same age as him and not someone vastly superior to him who can get him kicked out of training in a heartbeat. He stands back up, keeping Goldfish under his arm to keep him still.

“I’m really sorry about him, mate,” Greg apologizes sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve only had him an hour or two. I hope your trousers aren’t too ruined?”

The man looks between Goldfish and his trousers with disdain. “They’re disgusting and broken. I shall have to toss them out. In the future, do try to keep better control over your creature.”

“Of course.” Greg nods. He’d expected the other man to be upset, but he’d also expected an assurance that it was fine, even if an insincere one. It would have been the polite thing to do, Greg thinks. “Sorry. Again. I’m Greg. Greg Lestrade.”

His attempt at being friendly is completely ignored and the only reason Greg knows he was heard is because the man hums under his breath and turns his gaze back to his food. Perhaps it was against the rules to socialize with the recruits, Greg wonders as he returns back to his seat with Dimmock and a few others whose names he hasn’t bothered to learn yet.  Before he starts to eat, he puts Goldfish’s collar back on, leaving it a bit tighter this time and then putting him back down.

Dimmock laughs around a mouthful of chicken and rice. “At least we know the little bugger can run fast. Bit of a double edged sword, eh?”

Greg grumbles as he starts to eat, flipping Dimmock off absent mindedly. It’s the first real break they’ve gotten since they woke up, which means it’s the first opportunity for their bodies to start cooling off. Greg’s legs and back are aching up a storm and he’s positive that they’ll just go right back to training after lunch. They’re a day in, but Greg already feels half dead and his body is protesting like he’d just finished a dozen marathons in a row. It’s not a good sign, but just one glance at the others lets Greg now that they all feel the same. They better all be looking like James Bond (and not any of the lame ones, one of the hot ones, like Daniel Craig James Bond) by the end of this, if this is how sore they are after the first day.

There’s no talking for the entirety of lunch and Greg’s thankful for that. After their interrupted night of sleep yesterday and all the cardio today, it’s a miracle they can even get their forks up to their mouths to eat. Greg takes the chance to look around and actually look at the cafeteria and everyone in it. There’s the man whose trousers Goldfish had chewed up in the corner, looking incredibly intellectual with a pair of glasses perched on his nose while he reads something on a tablet. If Greg had seen him in some random pub or café, he would have definitely pegged him as a government agent sort. Or maybe Q or M. Someone who can fit right in at a spy organization, regardless. As for the rest of the cafeteria… Well, Greg is unnerved by how _normal_ the entire place seems. If Greg didn’t know any better, he’d say this is just the lunchroom at some regular, boring company. He can hear a table in the corner arguing loudly about a football game, the table to their right is gossiping about office romances, there’s a few people doing paperwork as they eat. It’s painstakingly normal and Greg is having trouble wrapping his head around the fact that this is a spy organization.

He tries to think of his uncle, all prim and proper and with a stick eternally up his arse, having a casual lunch here in his three piece suit and, apparently, badass spy tech.  Greg can’t picture it. He looks around the room, trying to find someone who can fit the mental image he’s formed for his uncle. He gives the room several lookovers, but his eyes keep falling back to the bloke whose trousers Goldfish had chewed on. The man has ginger hair and a face full of freckles, nothing at all like what Uncle Rupert had looked like, but the ‘better than you’ air about him is more than enough to let Greg picture his late uncle. Greg dubs him Freckles, since that’s all he has to go off of, and spends a few minutes watching him as subtly as possible.

Freckles is dressed like someone straight out of a Hunstman photoshoot. There’s a half finished plate of food pushed a few inches away from him and he’s cast aside his tablet in favor of bending over a thick book, turning a page a minute. He looks scholarly, without losing any of the intimidating air of him. Freckles looks every bit like he belongs here. Suave like Bond, clever like Q, and stern like M. Greg almost wishes Goldfish would go chew on his trousers again, if just to give Greg an excuse to talk to him again. Lamorak comes by to take them down to the shooting range and Greg spends far more time thinking about Freckles than he probably should. 

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah Greg already wants to tap that, buuuut like it says in the tags it's slow burn (ish) so be warned, they won't actually get together for a whiiiiile  
> also Mycroft's kind of a dick at first but that's certainly not a surprise
> 
> I can be found over on Tumblr at [dilestrade](http://dilestrade.tumblr.com/) or [unwins-boy](http://unwins-boy.tumblr.com/) for prompts, chatting, and whatnot


	3. Greg's Type

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Dimmock befriend Anderson and Sally and the four of them gossip about Mycroft and their families.

If Greg develops the slightest bit of a crush on Freckles, he certainly doesn’t tell anybody. They’re here to train and learn and he’s not going to let that be interrupted simply because he has a thing for red hair and freckles. When they go down to the range, Lamorak just has them take apart and put a gun back together over and over again, which quickly becomes very methodical and monotonous and gives Greg the opportunity to  spend their time in the shooting range day dreaming about Freckles and the very nice suit Goldfish had ruined. After a few dozen failed attempts at focusing on the gun instead of his silly, schoolyard crush, Greg decides to just stop trying. It’ll be like a fun distraction. Red hair and freckles are his thing, but attitudes and snideness aren’t, so it’s not like it’s anything serious. Maybe he can even look at it as a challenge. Spies have to seduce people, don’t they? Maybe he can just look at it like some sort of honeypot mission.

Greg is rather distracted for most of their time down in the shooting range. After the shooting range, though, they’re taken to a classroom where some bald man codenamed Merlin stands in the front of the room and gives a lecture on foreign etiquette and niceties, something Greg knows nothing about and can’t substitute with thinking about a cute boy from lunch.

Merlin has the patient of a saint compared to Lamorak, who’s always snapping and scowling and glaring, and eases them into the subject gently. He lets them pair up and practice with one another, giving helpful encouragements as he walks around the room instead of the snippy comments they would have received from Lamorak. It’s calmer and much easier environment to learn in than the one Lamorak encourages and Greg finds himself all but praying that Merlin will be assisting their training more often than not. All of the recruits are in good moods as they go to dinner, though Greg suspects that this would have happened if they’d been training with any agent that wasn’t Lamorak. They’re still all sore from the morning as they take food and sit together, but the good mood does wonders to get them talking and actually socializing this time. Greg also spends the time keeping an eye out for Freckles, but he must have had his dinner earlier, because he’s nowhere to be found.

They go outside one last time after dinner, thankfully not for running laps or exercise. They’re simply giving their dogs a chance to run around and play. Technically, they’re meant to be starting their puppy’s training, but everyone’s beat from their first day and it’s a unanimous decision that they’d rather set their puppies loose in the grass, sit back, and just watch them play amongst one another. There’s an agent supervising them, a woman who introduces herself as Lancelot and looks like she could kill them with a single finger, but she’s turning a blind eye to their lazing about and they couldn’t be more grateful. Greg is sitting between Dimmock and Sally, a candidate they’d just started chatting with at dinner. It’s technically against the rules, but they’re both discussing who and what had gotten them proposed. They’re both legacies, like most of the candidates in this batch, both from their fathers. Greg feels like the odd one out, being a legacy from an uncle he’d only seen a handful of times a year instead of a father who had been around constantly. Greg reckons that if anything is going to disadvantage him, it’s that he grew up far away from Kingsman while so many of the other candidates had grown up with it in their homes.

He’d been planning on just changing the subject when the subject of his proposal fell on him, but Sally and Dimmock prod, so he answers, picking at some blades of grass while he does. “My Uncle worked here before dying in V-Day and apparently, he’d been planning on proposing me when I graduated uni, so they sent someone to fetch me. Eggsy. Never gave me his codename, though.”

“Guinevere!” Sally supplies, grinning. “I met him once. My father introduced me. Blond? Talks a bit like a chav?”

Greg nods. “That’s the one. His code name’s… _Guinevere?_ But Guinevere’s a girl!”

“He and Arthur are an item. My dad told me. It’s a bit of a joke. Besides, codenames aren’t gendered,” Dimmock explains. “It’d be a bit unfair if they were, what with all the knights being blokes.”

Greg feels rather foolish, both because it seems that he’s behind on knowing people and because he hadn’t figured out that codenames are non-gendered, which seems rather obvious when Dimmock put it that way.  “Oh. Well, yeah, he went to go get me. I didn’t really know my uncle too well, though. He was always abroad. We saw him whenever he came back to England, usually with some fantastic gifts in tow, but he never stuck around or more than a few days. Always reckoned he wasn’t really a tailor, just didn’t have a clue that not a tailor equated to being a spy.”

“Tailors a pretty great cover because it sounds so boring that no one ever bothers to look into it.” Dimmock laughs. “I certainly would have never asked if my dad hadn’t offered the information.”

Sally nods in agreement. “I only ever asked because of how suspicious all his ‘business trips’ sounded. Even then, probably wouldn’t have thought twice about it if it hadn’t been for all the strange bruises and injuries he had.”

“I always assumed he was just in some sort of gang or something,” Greg confesses, laughing. It seems a bit silly now; his uncle had always been a rather upstanding member of society. At the time, however, he’d had very little to go off of and international spy hadn’t even been an option. “I’m glad he wasn’t, though. Getting asked to join a gang wouldn’t have been nearly as cool as getting asked to join this.”

 

 

\-----------

 

 

They’d been weary of going to sleep that second night, afraid that they’d get woken by some other disaster, but nothing of the sort had happened. The first week, in fact, had passed rather boringly. The first day, full of endless cardio and weightlifting, had been the exception, not the norm; meant to scare any slackers away. Most of the week had actually been spent inside classrooms, learning everything from defusing bombs to dinner etiquette in countries halfway across the world. It’s no less exciting and has the extra added benefit and not leaving them feeling like they’d been hit by a bus.

Apart from the poor bloke who’d drowned on the first night, no one else has been eliminated, though Lamorak has warned them time after time that elimination tests can happen at any point and with no warning. Merlin reminds them of this at the end of every lesson. The sense of paranoia they’d felt going to bed after the water incident has spread out to every moment of their days and they’re all taking bets on when and what the next test will be. (Greg has five quid on defusing a bomb because of how many lesson they’ve had on it. Some of the other blokes have bet on a honeypot, though Greg reckons that’s more wishful thinking than anything else.)

On top of the constant warnings about elimination tests, they’ve also been told plenty of times not to form cliques and compete amongst one another. Inevitably, the cliques begin to form anyway. Greg’s found a little group he’s fond of with Dimmock, Sally, and their newest addition, Philip Anderson who goes by Anderson to everyone but Sally. He’s biased, of course, but if he had to pick which of the groups was the friendliest, smartest, sanest of the batch of candidates, he’d say that his wins by a landslide.

The quietest two are a pair of brothers, whose names Greg can’t even remember, who only ever talk to one another. Well, the older of the two doesn’t seem to run out of inappropriate, flirty comments to make, but Greg doesn’t count that as proper conversation with other people. Greg and his friends are indifferent to the two. They’re both all right men, just reserved. If they were to be eliminated, Greg doubts he’ll miss them, but if they make it all the way to the end, he won’t be complaining either.

There’s Sebastian Moran and Jim Moriarty, a duo that had banded together within minutes of training beginning. Like the brothers, they seldom leave each other’s company, but unlike the brothers, there’s a distinctly aggressive, anti-social attitude to them. Every time Greg looks at them, they’re making hateful comments under their breaths or giving the other recruits nasty looks. Their dogs, a Doberman and a Rottweiler respectively, have already been trained to bark and snap at anyone other than their owner. They’re both nasty boys on their own and in one another’s company, they’re even worse. Admittedly, Greg is eager to see them both get eliminated. Sooner rather than later, since it can’t be safe to let two megalomaniacs like that around so many weapons.

There’s also a handful of loners, but Greg doubts they’ll make it very far. After all, while he’s sure that banding off into cliques like petty high schoolers isn’t the ideal teamwork that Lamorak had been talking about, it’s leaps and bounds better than being a loner. Greg’s excellent at conversational etiquette, Sally defuses bombs faster than anyone else in their class, Anderson is practically a living encyclopedia on toxicology, and Dimmock knows weapons inside and out.  Sure, they can get by all right enough on their own, but together their on a whole other level and Greg can’t see how anyone would choose loneliness over this.

 

 

\---------

 

 

At every meal, Greg searches for Freckles and at every meal, he winds up disappointed. He tries to be subtle about his scoping out the cafeteria, but it’s inevitable that someone would notice eventually. They are spies in training, after all. Sure enough, at breakfast on their third week, Sally follows his gaze around the dining room with a look of confusion.

“You always look for someone when we come eat. Is it a friend or something?” Sally asks, looking over at him.

Greg considers lying to avoid any teasing, but Sally just seems genuinely curious, even a touch concerned, and he can’t bring himself to lie. Instead, he shrugs meekly. “Just some man. Remember on the first day when Goldfish went and chewed up some poor bloke’s trousers?” He reached down to pet the aforementioned pup, feeding him a small piece of bacon as a reward for behaving so well and staying put at his feet while they eat. “He was kind of handsome, don’t you think? I keep hoping he’ll show up again. Dunno what I’d do if he did, not like I can ask him out to Netflix and chill or something, but it’d be nice to at least learn his name or something.”

Anderson nods as he remembers the incident and then immediately grimaces. “The gangly kid with that ghastly ginger hair, a nose too big for him, and spots all over his face?” he asks, making a face.

Greg scowls, elbowing him in the ribs. “Don’t say such mean things ‘bout people you don’t even know, mate. But yeah, that kid. I think he’s kind of fit.”

“Well… It must be an acquired taste or something.” Sally says, shaking her head. “Weird that he hasn’t come back, though. Maybe he was just visiting for the day? From another branch or something.”

Greg hadn’t considered that, but it makes sense. After all, there’s a lot of staff running around the manor, but not enough for someone to get _that_ lost in the crowd. At least that’s what Greg assumes. It’s very likely there’s more to the staff than they’re being allowed to see. “You’re probably right,” he agrees, nodding. “Damn shame, though. Would have loved to at least try to get at least one lay.”

Anderson snorts, shaking his head. “We barely have time to breathe in between all our schedule. It wouldn’t have done much good even if he’d agreed to shag you.”

Greg rolls his eyes, nudging at him again. “At least let a boy dream, mate. No need to be a downer like that. Oi, speaking of training, did any of you understand _anything_ from the lesson on hacking last night? Because I’m lost as can be.”

The conversation easily shifts away from Freckles and towards their training and Greg is more than thankful for it. He didn’t want to talk about some potential conquest of his. If it wasn’t for the fact that their socialization is incredibly limited because of their training, Greg is sure he would have spared maybe a few minutes of thought towards Freckles and then forgotten about the entire incident. There’s no need to make it seem more important than it actually is or devote more time than necessary to the topic of conversation. The subject doesn’t get brought up again, though it’s not as though they have a lot of time for chit chat. Their lunch is cut short by a test where they’d had to defuse a bomb (Greg fully intends on collecting his bet money later that night) and all but ten minutes of their dinner is occupied by Lamorak giving a speech on everything they’d done wrong, from taking too long to having a strand of hair out of place. In the end, they’re given a bit of leniency on their mistakes and no one gets sent home, though Lamorak promises that it’s the last time they’ll be having wiggle room for any mistakes.

It’s exhausting and they’re all more than ready for a good night’s rest, but after only a few hours of sleep – surprise, surprise – they’re woken up for yet another test. They don’t even bother hiding their groans of displeasure as they all change out of their pyjamas and into their uniform jumpsuits. It seems entirely unnecessary to be cramming several tests into a single day and Greg has a feeling it’s just Lamorak trying to make their lives even more miserable. Someone with a wrist watch informs them that it’s half past three and another chorus of groans echoes through the recruits. Lamorak glares at them as he ushers them into an empty classroom. They’re not given permission to sit, another chorus of soft whines, and they line up against one of the walls.

“Stop whining or I’ll toss you all out on the street.” Lamorak promises. He checks his watch and grumbles under his watch. “Fucking handlers. Always late.”

Lamorak heads back out into the hallway and they stay lined up and at attention. None of them is willing to test out whether or not Lamorak will keep his word on kicking them out if they complain, especially not after they’ve all just barely skidded by in their bomb test that afternoon. Lamorak comes back inside and lets out a content huff at seeing that they’re all still in line. Behind him comes a line of people; handlers, Greg supposes based on Lamorak’s comment. Or more likely, trainees to be handlers, judging from how young they look. And there at the end of the line, as if this whole thing is scripted, is Freckles, looking rather peeved at having been dragged out of bed.

Greg can feel his friend’s knowing smirks in his direction and a quick glance sideways confirms it. Dimmock is amused enough to risk a shit eating grin, despite Lamorak standing just a few feet beside them. Anderson and Sally, with synchronization that looks almost practiced, waggle their eyebrows at him. Greg can feel his ears reddening and he looks straight ahead. He’s just barely hearing Lamorak over the embarrassed pounding of his pulse in his ears and he’s filled with dread when Lamorak wraps up his speech on the importance of good handler-agent cooperation.

“So pair up and we’ll give you your assignments.”

Greg is hoping that they’ll have already been paired up. After all, training is meant to be unpleasant and there’s nothing more unpleasant than predetermined groups. But no, they’re stepping forward now and picking partners for their training and both Lamorak and the handlers’ trainer are just standing by and watching. Neither shows sign of interfering, despite Greg’s hasty prayers that they will. He stands still for a good minute, unsure of what he should do. He knows he has to make a decision soon because Sally, Anderson, and Dimmock had all shared a look and a nod, which no doubt meant that they’d already decided that he was going to be pairing off with Freckles, and besides, the longer he just stands there like an idiot, the less handlers there are to pair off with.

He walks over towards the first handler he saw - the first one that wasn’t Freckles, that is – and Sally dashes in front of him to claim her before he gets a chance. He goes to another one and Dimmock does the same. Unsurprisingly, his third attempt is stopped as well and Freckles is the only handler left over. Greg shoots his friends a glare and then goes over to Freckles, giving him a friendly smile and hoping he doesn’t look as awkward as he feels.

“Hey, there. Good night. Or, morning, I guess. S’pose we’re working on this assignment together. Uh… Good to see you got a new pair of trousers after Goldfish chewed yours up.” Greg says. And then immediately regrets it. Of all the stupidest things he could have said, that was probably the stupidest.

Freckles looks down at Goldfish and wrinkles his nose in disdain. He takes a small step away from the dog and looks back up at Greg with a frown. “Well… I hope you’re a better partner than you are a dog trainer.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've finished up the last chapter, so updates will be every Wednesday and Saturday now! 
> 
> I didn't mention in the last chapter, but Lamorak's meant to be than one police supervisor from Reichenbach falls? I think he was unnamed and he has like one scene, but he has that type of face, you know? xD Thanks for reading! I'll see you all next Saturday when Mycroft and Greg are working together!
> 
> I can be found over on Tumblr at [dilestrade](http://dilestrade.tumblr.com/) or [unwins-boy](http://unwins-boy.tumblr.com/) for prompts, chatting, and whatnot


	4. Training Mission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Mycroft are awkward and then Greg is about as giddy as a toddler to go on his training.

They get a quick briefing on the importance of handler-agent relationships, but the nature of their actual assignment is kept under wraps. Their taken over to another room for some tech. Greg would be excited about it, if he didn’t feel so fucking awkward. Freckles hasn’t looked at him at him as they walked to the other room, hadn’t even introduced himself. When they get to the new room and sit down in pairs, Greg takes a moment to glare at his friends for sticking him in this position. Sally, at least, has the decency to look sheepish when she sees that Freckles is practically ignoring him. Dimmock and Anderson just snicker to themselves.

Lamorak and the other trainer went around the room, handing out earpieces. The handlers’ trainer explains that the agent recruits will be going through a fake office building slash simulated mission slash modern-day torture device (Greg may have added that last one himself) while the handler recruits guide them through it. All the agent recruits would receive paint ball rifles and get sent into the building one by one. Somewhere in the building would be some sort of object and there mission was to get to it and extract it safely without being stopped by any of the simulated threats. Getting paint balled equaled a fail, not retrieving the object equaled a fail, and a lack of cooperation between ‘handler’ and ‘agent’ equaled a fail. (Though not a ‘get kicked out of training’ fail, just an ‘extra laps and reps during training’ sort of fail, the handler’s trainer had assured them, much to Lamorak’s chagrin.) The instructions have only just wrapped up and already there is a complaint.

 “If our handler does a piss poor job and we fail because of them, it’s still our fault? Don’t seem fair.” Sebastian Moran huffs and grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest.

One of the handlers, handling one of the brothers that Greg always gets mixed up, nods in agreement. “And if our agent doesn’t listen to us and doesn’t complete the assignment successfully, it doesn’t mean we did a bad job handling. Just that they did a bad job listening.”

“Well, in the field, it doesn’t quite matter does it?” Lamorak sneers. “If one of you fail as a handler or fails to listen to your handler, people end up dead. And nothing will fix that. Not even a copious amount of whining that you got stuck with a bad handler or an unruly agent.”

Greg glances over at Freckles warily. He sort of agrees with what Moran had said, at least in a training aspect. In the real world, he knows that Lamorak is right. They don’t get to pick and choose their circumstances as they might in a training exercise. But it still leaves him with a bad taste in his mouth to think that he might be running extra laps because he’d gotten stuck with a subpar handler. Freckles is great to look at yes, but that was no indication of what he might be like as a handler. Freckles seems to be thinking the same thing, because they make awkward eye contact for a moment, both of them with nearly twin looks of dubious disdain on their faces. Greg looks away in embarrassment and chides himself for being so quick to judge. Freckles does no such thing and all but sneers in his face when Lamorak announces that they have five minutes to get acquainted with one another.

“I’ll have you know,” Freckles starts, sounding as self-important as he had in the cafeteria the weeks before, “that I’ve developed a rather excellent reputation regarding my training and I shan’t have it ruined because of who I happened to partner up with.”

Greg bristles, scowling. Apparently, Freckles’ coldness hadn’t stemmed from getting his trousers all chewed up. His friends were never going to hear the end of it. “Well, I’m not exactly looking to get eliminated, either. So don’t worry, mate. I’ll give as good as I get,” he mutters, rolling his eyes. He looks around and sees everyone at least trying to socialize with their partner. Even Moriarty and Moran are talking with their handlers, and those two are infamous for not playing well with others. Greg will be damned if he’s going to be the odd one out because he happened to get stuck with a grumpy handler. He leans forward and extends his hand. “I’m Greg. Greg Lestrade.”

Freckles stares at his hand for a good half a minute before reaching for it and shaking it gently. “I know. You’d already introduced yourself after your beast attacked me. However, if we must keep with introductions for formality’s sake, I’m Mycroft.”

He lets out an impressed, “Huh. I didn’t know they gave handlers in training codenames.” Strange codename or not, it feels good to finally have a name to the face.

Greg sees the briefest flicker of embarrassment pass over Mycroft before a look of utter contempt masks it. “Mycroft is not a codename. It is, in fact, the name my mother bestowed upon me and the one I’ve been using all my life. Would you like to be the one to inform my mother that she’s given me a name ridiculous enough so as to get it confused with Arthurian mythology?”

If there’s a world record for embarrassment, Greg has certainly broken it now. He wants to crawl under a rock and die. He should have keep his mouth shut, he knows. But alas, he hadn’t and had said something stupid like ask Mycroft is his name was a codename. “Fuck.” Greg shakes his head, frowning. “I’m sorry. That was… stupid.”

“Yes, it was,” Mycroft agrees, nodding. “However, let’s blame it on the early hour of the morning and move on, yes? It’ll do no good if we’re squabbling. This is the legacy group, yes? Was your father an agent?”

Greg grasps eagerly at the change of conversation topic, more than glad to leave his fuck up behind. He shakes his head. “Nah, my uncle was. I didn’t really know him that much; he didn’t visit very often. But he was related to me and that was enough to get me in here, I guess.”

“So you’ve no experience with the spy world, then? Aside from this little bit of training?” Mycroft asks an, at Greg’s nod, lets out a long suffering sigh. “Very well, then. That already places us at a disadvantage, seeing as some of these others have already been exposed to things like this through their parents. No matter. We’ll have to make due.”

Greg feels guilty for not having spent more time with his uncle. He also feels incredibly stupid for not being a living, breathing database of the spy world. Neither of those things is his fault, but it’s hard not to feel like an underserving idiot under Mycroft’s condescending gaze. He’s struggling to remember what he ever found attractive about this cruel, cold man. He’s going to kill Sally and Dimmock and Anderson. Kill them in their sleep. Knowing Lamorak, he’ll probably just get a congratulatory pat on the back for the murder.

He shifts uncomfortably under Mycroft’s gaze. "So did one of your parents work here, then?" he asks, since it's the only explanation he can come up with for the high horse Mycroft seems to be on.

"My mother. She works in the R&D department. I've grown up around this. Unlike you. So I suggest you follow my instructions to a T during this test, yes?" Mycroft's eyes narrow as he stares at him and his scowl deepens.

"Calm down, mate. I'll do what you tell me so long as what you're telling me makes sense. You do your job and I'll do mine." Greg is no longer embarrassed or feeling stupid so much as he's incredibly annoyed. Just his luck to have a crush on an annoying git and just his luck to have friends that decided to play matchmaker.

Lamorak announces that their time is out before Mycroft has a chance to make some other condescending comment. They stand at attention against the wall and Lamorak calls the order they’ll go in. Greg prays silently that he'll be among the first to go in. The sooner this is done, the sooner they’ll be allowed to head back to the dorms for some rest. Things don't seem to be going his way, though, and he gets placed eight on the list. The only consolidation is that all his friends are further down on the list than he is. It’s a small bit of revenge after the stunt they’d pulled.

He and Mycroft have a while to wait before they can head to their test, so they have to sit around to wait for their turn to come. They're forbidden to talk, under threat of extra laps if they do. They'd been handed their paintball rifles and Greg is fiddling with his, taking it apart and putting it back together a few times as they wait. Mycroft keeps glancing over at him, no doubt holding back the urge to make a comment about his fidgeting, but Greg is more than happy to ignore him. A task made infinitely easier by being the one with the rifle, as opposed to Mycroft who only has the laptop he'll be doing his handling on.

They wait for at least three hours before they're called up. Three hours is a very long time to sit in silence. In the two hours, Greg has had time to panic about how long it's taking the others to complete their test. Then calm himself down. And then work himself into another panic as the minutes continued to tick by. He's only just managed to calm himself down again when he and Mycroft are called forward, which is a small blessing. Panicking would only make it easier to mess up, make it harder to think straight.

They get taken down to another section of the manor, walking in silence. Goldfish trots behind them loyally, seemingly unaffected by the lack of sleep. It must be close to six now and Greg can see the beginnings of dawn out in the sky. There's still a few more recruits after him, so he reckons they'll have to let them go back to the dorms and get some proper sleep. They can't train only a portion of the group. The thought of sleep is just the motivation boost Greg needs and he noticeably chippers up as he has to part ways with Mycroft and get to work.

"Try not to go in too confident, Gregory." Mycroft chides, arching an eyebrow at Greg. "I'll be doing my best from here. Listen. Pay attention. And good luck." The well wishes are added on with a bit of hesitation, an obvious after thought, but Greg appreciates it none he less.

"I won't." Greg assures him. He thinks of explaining that he's just thinking about sleep, knows that would get a laugh from any of his fellow trainees. But he has a feeling that Mycroft would just sneer at him.

“I’ll see you once all this is over. Hopefully with a successful assignment under our belt.” Mycroft nods cordially at him and disappears off into a room with his trainer. Greg sends Goldfish inside with him to be dogsat while Greg’s testing.

Greg is ushered away to a part of the manor that he hasn’t seen before and Lamorak stops to inspect him just in front of a large warehouse door. They make sure that he and Mycroft can both hear one another over their ear pieces, Lamorak checks Greg’s paintball rifle, and then Lamorak gives him short briefing as to the nature of his ‘mission’. The set-up is some company dabbling in biological warfare and Greg has to get through the offices and find some sort of hard drive with the evidence.  Lamorak leaves him with a, “Don’t get caught and don’t get shot,” which is horribly discouraging, but Greg knows he can’t let it get to him. Lamorak’s just trying to get him out of his game.

Lamorak leaves and the warehouse door rises up to reveal the course Greg has to get through. When he’d been told he’d have to get through an office building, he’d been expecting a small make believe version of an office where they were using their imagination more than anything. It seems Kingsman really doesn’t do anything half assed, because Greg is standing in front of an elaborate looking replica of some office building’s lobby. He can see some elevators at the end of the lobby and he strongly suspects that they’re fully functional. Kingsman is all go big or go home. Greg is hesitant to step inside until his earpiece crackles to life.

“Just go! We have a forty-five minute time limit. No time for you to stand there and gawk.” Mycroft scolds.

Greg mumbles an apology and steps inside, looking about and finding the place eerily empty. He holds on to his paintball rifle tightly, wondering if proper trigger discipline is required when one is on a mission. He decides not to risk a scolding from his weapons instructor and keeps his finger hovering on the barrel. Greg looks over his shoulder and notes with a grimace that the warehouse door has come back down. He starts walking over towards the elevators, but Mycroft is quick to stop him.

“Not the elevators. I strongly suspect they won’t just let us waltz in and take whatever we want. You’ll corner yourself if you’re in the elevator. Take the stairs instead. The public ones are to your right, but they seem far too obvious for my taste. There should be some maintenance stairs around the corner to your left. The keypad code is…” There was a lull in instructions and Greg hears some faint typing in the background. “4928. Go along. Forty-two minutes left.”

Greg follows the instructions, typing in the code and stepping into the stairwell. The numbers go up as the stairs go down, but Greg gets the idea. Mycroft tells him that the coast is clear for at least five floors down, but Greg still heads down with caution. There’s an ominous silence throughout the entire place. Greg can hear his breathing as harshly as storm winds, his pulse as overbearing as a drum, and his footsteps as deafening as a thunderstorm. When Greg expresses these concerns in a soft mumble that may as well be a shout, Mycroft assures him that he can’t hear anything over the comm and it’s likely anyone in the course won’t hear anything either.  It’s likely the nicest Greg has heard Mycroft sound and he worries that perhaps the test has gotten to Mycroft’s head. Greg makes his way down to the fifth floor before Mycroft stops him.

“Stop. Your rifle. Is the safety off? I want to check something.” Mycroft instructs.

Greg stiffens and nods, looking over his shoulder nervously. “Yeah… What’s wrong? Someone heading my way?” he asks, curling and uncurling his finger anxiously.

“The door to the fifth floor. There’s someone doing rounds up and down that hallway. I want to make sure that shooting them with your rifle really means they’ll be out of the equation. So, when I say so – not a moment earlier and not a moment later, we need to catch him when he’s just rounding the corner so you’ll have a clear shot and he won’t have time to react – throw the door open, turn to your left, and shoot the guard there. Something fatal. And be ready to run like hell down to the seventeenth floor if he doesn’t go down and starts shooting at you. Understood?” Mycroft sounds terribly calm and Greg supposes it must not even be a fraction as scary through a computer screen instead of on the other side of the door. “Twenty-eight minutes left, so do hurry after you’ve done this. All right. And…. Go!”

Greg doesn’t have enough time to panic or second guess himself and he just lets his recent training take over as he shoulders the door open, aims, and takes two shots before the guard even had time to process what was going on. (Admittedly, Greg hadn’t even been all that aware what was happening. He’s running purely on adrenaline and instinct.) It had been a good shot and Greg feels rather proud of the blue splatters right over the guard’s helmet and one over the golden Kingsman K on his chest. The guard sets down his pistol and sits down, for all accounts ‘dead’ in this simulation. He takes off his helmet and Greg recognizes him as one of the technicians who’d been teaching them about weaponry and sharp shooting.

Greg grins brightly at him. “See? I’ve been paying attention in class.” he says, gesturing at the paint over his instructor’s chest. Mycroft interrupts before Mr. Hal has a chance to answer, but Greg spots a fond rolling of his eyes.

“Gregory. Not the time to chat. Twenty-seven and a half minutes left.” Mycroft scolds. Greg can practically hear his scowl. “Back out and downstairs to the seventeenth floor. That’s where our hard drive is.”

“Yes, yes, Mycroft, I’m going, I’m going. See you around, Mr. Hal.” Greg waves goodbye. He feels giddy now because _holy shit_ he just fake killed someone in his fake mission. He doesn’t feel like James Bond – James Bond wouldn’t be _fake_ killing anybody – but he does feel one step closer and for now, that’s more than enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really don't like writing action scenes, so it's going to be kept vague and brief. It'll be over next chapter, there's just something important happening between them in the next chapter. Thanks for reading and I'll see you guys on Wednesday!
> 
> I can be found over on Tumblr at [dilestrade](http://dilestrade.tumblr.com/) or [unwins-boy](http://unwins-boy.tumblr.com/) for prompts, chatting, questions, and whatnot


	5. Almost Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Mycroft finish up their test together and they both get to see a different side of one another

There's a spring to Greg's step as he makes his way down the stairs. Perhaps it's the adrenaline from pulling the trigger of a gun somewhere outside of a shooting range. Perhaps his anxieties over the test have finally managed to fade away. Perhaps it's the thrill of it all seeping into his system. Perhaps it was just the sleep deprivation from being woken up in the middle of the night. Perhaps it's being safe with the knowledge that this isn't an elimination test and however he winds up doing here, he'll still be having breakfast with his fellow recruits in a few hours and continuing his training. Regardless of the reason, Greg is actually quite enjoying himself now.

"Kind of fun, isn't it, Mycroft?" Greg comments as he jogs down the stairs.

He can practically hear Mycroft rolling his eyes as the other scoffs. "It's a test. A simulation for something that may one day be our work. It's not meant to be fun."

"Yeah, well maybe it's not meant to be. But it really sort of is," Greg insists, laughing and then immediately getting scolded for it.

"You're supposed to be a spy, Gregory! Spies don't bloody giggle on the job," Mycroft snaps. "Twenty-two minutes left. Stop here on this floor."

"God damn, Myc, lighten up," Greg mumbles under his breath. He stops and looks at the floor marker on the door curiously. "We're one floor above where our target's meant to be, mate."

"Yes, I'm very aware, Gregory. But the stairwell entrance to that floor has half a dozen guards in front of it. So we're taking another way in," Mycroft explains. There's a pause and Greg waits as Mycroft no doubts inspects the feeds and blueprints. "There's two guards doing rounds on the hallway rounding the corner. So go in quietly and with your gun raised, understood? We'll go from there once the two other guards are out of the picture. As smoothly as last time, if you please. Twenty minutes, by the way. So do try not to stop and chat this time around?”

Greg flips off the nearest security camera he can find. “Don’t make it sound like I sat down and had some tea with him.”

“Just go, Gregory.”

He can’t believe he’d had a crush on this guy just a few hours earlier. Greg heads inside and goes through the motions, getting it done just as before. Just to bother Mycroft a bit, he stops to remark that the paintballs had been yellow this time around. Mycroft predictably yells at him through the comm and Greg just laughs some more as he retreats and goes towards the elevator as Mycroft directs.

“Thought you said the elevator was too confined.” Greg comments, looking nervously over his shoulder and at the corners, even though Mycroft has already informed him that the threats on this floor have been taken care of.

“Between the elevator and the heavily guarded stairs, this was the lesser of the two evils,” Mycroft explains. “We’re down to seventeen minutes. I’m getting the elevator down to you and then you’ll be down in a few seconds. Gun up and ready to shoot, understood? _Fuck_ trigger discipline.”

Greg lets out a startled laugh at Mycroft’s swearing. “Got that, Myc.”

The elevator comes up and Greg heads in, standing with his paintball gun pointed at the closed doors as it heads down. Mycroft informs him that there’s some guards in front of the elevator door, but that they’ve got their backs turned and Greg should be able to ‘shoot’ them both before they’ve turned their back. But then the elevator fucking _dings_ as it stops on the seventeenth floor and there’s a long string of cursing through his comm. In the half a second that it takes the door to open, several thoughts run through his mind. The first is that oh well, the James Bond streak had been nice while it lasted. The second is that paintballs fucking hurt and several paintballs at point blank is _definitely_ going to leave him sore. The third is imagining how Mycroft is going to pin this on him, because Mycroft is most definitely going to make him this out to be his fault. The fourth – hoping that his friends don’t find out that he’s failed – is cut short by the doors opening. Predictably, the two guards there have their guns raised and are shooting at him as Greg does the same. Greg hits both of them, but not before a paintball his him in the forearm.

He looks down at the paint splatter on his arm and swears loudly. “Fucking hell. Sorry, Myc. Guess you better send someone to collect me.”

There’s silence for a few moments and in the background, Greg hears some papers being shuffled around and muffled arguing. It’s a strange relief when Mycroft is yelling in his ear again. “You can continue a mission with a non-fatal injury. You just can’t use that arm anymore.”

“Fuck yeah,” Greg exclaims eagerly, grabbing his rifle again and going to pull it up to his shoulder before Mycroft interrupts him.

“Takes two hands to hold a rifle, Gregory. One of your pistols,” Mycroft corrects.

Greg grumbles a little as he pulls his hand gun out of his holster. It’s not his favorite, but it’s better than having to quit the test. “Where am I headed to know, Myc?” he asks, stepping over the two guards playing dead – he wonders if they’re getting paid for this, to play paintball and then lay around – and peering out of the elevator. This hallway, at least, seems to be empty. He reaches up to steady his gun with his left hand before remembering that his left arm is out of commission. With a frustrated groan, he puts his arm behind his back to keep himself from using it and followed Mycroft’s directions down the hallway. There’s at least half a dozen guards down this hallway and trying to get rid of them single handedly is proving to be a difficult task. After a few more close calls, Greg ends up with no choice but to duck into a maintenance closet for a few seconds to think. Mycroft, of course, decides this is the time to be quiet.

“Holmes!” Greg snaps. “I could do with some advice. Won’t shut up all test long and now that I need you, you haven’t said a word?”

Mycroft grumbles an apology and then mutters some unintelligible nonsense to himself for a few moments before stopping abruptly. “Gregory. Do you have that paint grenade on you?”

Greg feels up along his pocket and sure enough, there it is. They’ve had ‘grenades are a last resort grenades are a last resort grenades are a last resort’ drilled into their heads so much, that the thought hadn’t even come to him. “Yup. Got it. Toss it out?” he asks.

“Yes. Pull the pin, wait three seconds, and toss it out. And then wait for my cue to go back out to the hall.” Mycroft instructs.

Greg tugs off the pin, trying not to feel too much like a character on Halo, counts to three one-thousandth, and opens the closet door just long enough to toss it out. Were it a real grenade, he’d definitely still be in the range of it and he wouldn’t come out unscathed. He’s positive Lamorak will bringing it up one they’re done. Right now, though? It’s just way too cool to worry too much. He waits until Mycroft gives him the okay to go back out and Greg is absolutely giddy at the paint covered hallway that greets him when he opens the door. He almost stops to admire it, but Mycroft seems to sense it and is chirping instructions at his ear and rushing him. Greg runs down the hallway, skidding to a stop in front of an unassuming office door. The door is locked – because why wouldn’t it be? – and there isn’t a computerized keypad in sight. They’d gotten a brief lecture on lock picking, but Greg can’t remember a thing. He starts to panic. James Bond probably knew how to pick locks. He should know too. He’s going to fail the test and give Lamorak the satisfaction all because he can’t fucking remember how to pick a lock.

His panicking must be obvious, because Mycroft’s voice has lost some of its cold edge as he talks in Greg’s ear. “Calm down, Gregory. You’re doing fine, all right? You’re very nearly done and we certainly won’t be failing this over a lock. You’ve done fantastically so far and you’ll continue to do so.  Deep breaths for a moment. I’ll guide you through it.”

Greg has to shoot at someone who’d rounded the corner, but then he takes a moment to breathe and calm down. Wasting time, yes, but he won’t get anything done if he works himself into a panic. Mycroft gives him a minute to compose himself before starting to talk Greg through the lock picking. It takes a few tries and it burns up precious time, but they get it done and Greg heads inside. He locks the door behind him and goes to the computer at the office’s desk. Mycroft gives him the password and Greg sets his pistol down on the desk as he downloads the files Mycroft indicates.

“That should take another minute and then just rush back upstairs. It’s only eight minutes until we’re out of time,” Mycroft advises.

Greg mumbles a confirmation that he’s heard, staring at the progress bar of the file transfer and willing it to go faster. Time was ticking down and the files only seemed to be going slower and slower. It takes three full minutes for the files to download and there’s little Greg can do but pace nervously and kick the wall in frustration a few times. When it’s done, Greg shoves the USB in his pocket and fucking bolts. He has five minutes to get back upstairs and that involves a _lot_ of stairs. He manages to get back up to the first floor with forty seconds to spare.

His legs are throbbing and his lungs are burning, but Lamorak is waiting there for him and he’s absolutely ecstatic. Greg’s sure he’s going to get a long list of all his fuck ups, but he couldn’t care less because he gets to _sleep_ after he’s done getting yelled at. Adrenaline can only keep him running for so long. Just like he expects, Lamorak yells at him for twenty minutes, going over all the things he’d done wrong. Greg is only half paying attention. He looks properly ashamed in himself and nods along when he feels it’s appropriate. He has to meet up with Mycroft and ‘reflect on their collaboration’, but then he gets to go back to the dorms and sleep for five _glorious_ hours. Before dismissing him to go see Mycroft, Lamorak gives Greg a reluctant compliment on having finished and Greg’s so shocked, he just stands there and gapes at his trainer.

“Don’t just stand there and stare, Lestrade. Go!” Lamorak barks, glaring at him.

And there’s the Lamorak Greg has come to expect. He nods and leaves to go meet up with Mycroft near the recruits’ dorm. Greg hears him before he sees him. Or more like he hears Goldfish’s eager barks as the German Shepherd runs over. In his puppy-like excitement, Goldfish skids to a stop and crashes into Greg’s legs.

 “Hey there, boy. Did you miss me?” Greg laughs and crouches down, scratching his ears. Goldfish barks in response and tries climbing up on him to lick his face.

Mycroft’s a few steps behind and he stops to loom over them. “He was… surprisingly well behaved.” He hesitates and then leans down to pat Goldfish’s head. “He slept most of the time.”

Greg gave Goldfish’s belly a quick rub as a reward and stood up. “Thanks for looking for him. And for handling. I’d say we did a damn good job.”

“Yes. Even with all the times you seemed to fall into your 007 fantasy,” Mycroft laughs.

“It was fun!” Greg insists. He’s dead tired and falling asleep at his feet, but he can’t help to laugh along. “Thanks for calming me down, by the way. Near the end. Would have panicked and blown it without you.”

“Now, what sort of handler would I be if I wasn’t there to encourage you? Besides… You were a good partner. I apologize for my rudeness when we first got assigned together. I was a bit brash in my judgement.”

First Lamorak had complimented him and now Mycroft’s apologizing? The world must be ending again. Greg isn’t even sure what to say, so he just pats Mycroft’s shoulder and turns to go back to the dorms. He pauses, his hand hovering over the door knob. After a moment, he turns back to Mycroft and calls out to him.

“Laughing’s a good look on you, by the way. Much better than all that scowling you’re always doing, Myc.”

“Don’t call me Myc.”

For Mycroft’s sake, Greg pretends not to see Mycroft’s smile as they go their separate ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awww baes are starting to like one another. They won't actually be a thing for a few more chapters, though! Thanks for reading!  
> I can be found over on Tumblr at [dilestrade](http://dilestrade.tumblr.com/) or [unwins-boy](http://unwins-boy.tumblr.com/) for prompts, chatting, questions, and whatnot


	6. Spy Coast, Handlers Coast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a fair deal of gossiping and a lot of cute feuding.

The day after their test they don’t do much other than sleep and it’s absolutely _glorious_. Lamorak yells at them over dinner, just as expected. He’s kind enough to single out all their mistakes in front of the entire group and normally, it’d be a downer over dinner. But they’ve all just gotten a full night’s rest and didn’t have to go run an ungodly amount of laps before the sun rose, so even Lamorak’s whining and scolding isn’t enough to dampen their mood. They hang their heads and pick at their food and look dutifully shamed as he scolds them, but it isn’t even a full two minutes after he’s gone that they’re back to laughing and joking with one another and comparing paintball bruises. Dimmock, Anderson, and Sally want to know all about Mycroft, of course.

“He looked kind of like a dick, mate,” Dimmock notes apologetically, leaning across the table to pat Greg on the shoulder.

Sally nods in agreement. “We wouldn’t have set you up if we had known. Was it as horrible as it looked?”

Greg starts to reply, pauses to eat a forkful of potatoes as he thinks, and then shrugs. “I dunno. It was kind of weird, you know? At first, he was totally a dick. Wouldn’t stop making condescending comments or glaring at me. Granted, after the first few comments, I started doing the same thing. But he started it. Then we sort of settled into… mutual tolerance, I’d say? Figured it was better to get along and finish the test than bicker and fail. By the end of it, though… He was _almost_ nice. Almost, mind you. Not totally nice.”

“So there may or may not be fling potential?” Sally asks. She snorts at Greg’s startled look, raising an eyebrow. “What? Training takes _months_ from what I’ve heard and dating’s not against the rules if it’s not a superior. You have to have some fun somehow!”

“Sally! All I know about the bloke is that he really hates getting his clothes ruined and that he’s posh as fuck. Hardly enough to go making him a boyfriend.” Greg points out, rolling his eyes. He can’t decide what he’s more embarrassed about. Sally making the suggestion or the back of his neck turning red and starting to burn.

“I know. That’s why she’s not suggesting making him your boyfriend. Just a fling of sorts,” Anderson suggests, ever so helpfully.

Greg glares at him and Dimmock, who seems to feed off teasing Greg and getting him flustered, decides to hop in. “Just two days ago you were practically writing poetry about his freckles. Whatever happened to that, huh? To Romeo Lestrade – Greg Montague? – and his purple prose about the man he only ever interacted with once in passing at dinner?”

“Piss off,” Greg huffs, reaching over and stealing Dimmock’s dessert rations. Like a schoolboy on a playground, he runs his tongue along every edge of the brownie to mark it as his and sets it aside on his tray for later.

“Look who just came in,” Sally remarks, smirking at Greg as she not so subtly points Mycroft out. Not that he’s hard to miss. Mycroft’s one of the tallest in the room and the red hair doesn’t exactly blend in.

“Stop fucking pointing,” Greg grumbles, shoving her hand down and making a point of not looking in Mycroft’s direction. Goldfish doesn’t make it very easy when he starts yanking at his leash to try to head over to the new friend he’d made while Greg had been testing. Greg glares down at his dog, commanding him to stay. Goldfish still hasn’t gotten many commands down, so it’s no surprise when the dog just barks and fights some more against his leash.

Dimmock laughs, reaching down under the table to give Goldfish a scratch behind the ear and feed all their dogs some leftover scraps of meat. That, at least, seems to distract Goldfish’s attention from Mycroft for a little while. “See? Even your dog wants you two to hit it off. I guess he’s tired of hearing about red hair and freckles too.”

Greg grumbles, “Shut up, Dimmock. I don’t even really like him anymore?”

“Is that a question, Greg? Sounds like a question.” Sally laughs, still staring at Mycroft as the other gets his food and sits down. Mycroft must have noticed the staring by now, because he’s very obviously _not_ looking in their direction. “If you go over and talk to him, you might be able to make up your mind.”

“Just because he was kind of almost nice to me when he was giving Goldfish back doesn’t mean he wasn’t a dick the rest of the night. If I go over there now, he’ll probably be just as much of an ass as he was at first.” Greg’s trying rather desperately to reason them out of this idea because truth be told, he’s rather tempted as well.

“Might not, though. Come on! Just go and say hi. Blame it on Goldfish if you have to. Just do it. I dare you,” Dimmock challenges teasingly, smirking smugly. They really are like schoolboys on a playground, it seems.

“You know what? Fine. Fine! Gives me a chance to get away from you annoying pricks,” Greg huffs, scowling a little as he stands up. He’s almost done with his dinner, either way, so if Mycroft is a pain, he doesn’t have to be there for long. “Besides, I never back down from a dare, you twat.”

Greg grabs his tray of food on one hand and Goldfish’s leash in the other, which makes it a bit hard to stomp away sullenly, but he tries his best. He goes over to Mycroft’s table and sets his things down across from him. Mycroft doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t glare _and_ he leans down to briefly pet the top of Goldfish’s head. That’s definitely a good sign.

“Mind if I sit here, Myc?” Greg asks, deciding that it’s probably best he doesn’t bring up a reason why. ‘My friends dared me to sit here because I think you’re kind of cute’ isn’t a very polite thing to say and Greg can’t think of anything else that won’t sound like a sloppy lie.

Mycroft nods, putting aside his tablet. Before the screen locks, Greg can see that he was reading something about coding and hacking and Greg’s respect for handlers grows a little more. “You’re welcome to sit wherever you like, Gregory.”

“Thought I told you my name’s Greg?” He smiles as he sits, glad that he doesn’t have to deal with the sneers and snide remarks of the previous night.

“And I told you not to call my Myc. I suppose that makes us even.” Mycroft nods and there’s the barest hint of a smile on his face. “How did your debriefing go? I suppose you got yelled at?” He leans forward and lowers his voice before continuing. “Lamorak is infamously short tempered. Our trainer says that no one really likes him and since everyone hates training recruits, they gave it to him. Hoping he’ll lose his temper one too many times and just quit.”

Greg lets out a startled laugh and nods. “Yeah, he yelled at us right here, actually. I didn’t take you as one to gossip, Myc. Did your trainer tell you that?”

Mycroft shakes his head, smirking a little as he takes a delicate sip of his water. “No. I make it my business to know everyone else’s business. The personal standard I hold myself to is at least one piece of blackmail for everyone.”

“Jesus. Why the fuck aren’t you in my batch of recruits? That’s some spy shit right there.” Greg laughs. It’s unnerving how easily he believes that, but spending even a short amount of time at headquarters for a spy organization really, _really_ raises your bar on what’s believable and what isn’t.

“Well… Do try not to take offence to this, Gregory, the job you may do one day is important, but…” Mycroft trails off as he thinks of proper phrasing. “It’s not really a powerful one, now is it? You’re down in the field and you may be the ones pulling the trigger, but at the end of the day, it’s the handlers back home that get to decide what you’re shooting at. I don’t do very well in puppet positions, hence I’m training to be a handler instead.”

It comes out incredibly harsh, despite Mycroft’s attempt at sounding polite. Greg, however, tries not to get too upset. He knows that what Mycroft is saying isn’t necessarily untrue and Mycroft had clearly made an attempt at not sounding like a dick, which is far more than he’d done just twenty-four hours earlier. Greg shrugs as he picks apart one of his brownies and eats a few of the crumbs. “I guess that’s true. But you guys wouldn’t be able to get anything done if you didn’t have us out in the field. We need one another,” Greg compromises.

Mycroft just nods and very wisely changes the subject. “Your dog seems far more well behaved now than during our original encounter.” he notes, gesturing down to Goldfish, who’s curled up for a nap at Greg’s feet.

“Well, he likes you know. Don’t know if you gave him treats or something last night, but he put up quite a fight when you came in. Wanted to run over and say hi.” Greg chuckles. Really, Goldfish’s training is going horribly and the pup still does whatever he wants, whenever he wants, so Greg is eternally grateful that Goldfish has decided to cooperate and behave just this once.

“My trainer gave him a dog biscuit or two,” Mycroft explains. He rolls his eyes a bit, but there’s none of the sharp coldness there had been when he’d first met Goldfish. He’s just about finished his dinner and he gathers up his trash before standing up. “I’m afraid I have to go study. Good night, Gregory. And a good night to your dog as well.”

He strides away to throw away his trash and is gone from the cafeteria as suddenly as he’d arrived. Greg watches him go and is left even more confused than when he’d first sat down. He shoves his remaining brownie into his mouth and clears up his space before going out to take Goldfish on a walk. Maybe some fresh air would help him think.

 

 

\------

 

Greg spends close to an hour walking Goldfish outside. He gets a chance to try to figure out the mess of feelings in his head and also gives him a chance to tire Goldfish out for the night. When he strolls back into the recruits’ dorm, everyone’s already back from dinner. Sally, Anderson, and Dimmock swarm to him the second he sits down.

“You can’t go off to talk with the bloke you want to sleep with and then disappear without telling us how it went,” Sally scolds.

Greg ignores them for a second as he undoes Goldfish’s leash and sets down a bowl of water for him. He gives Goldfish a scratch behind the ears and leaves the dog lapping at his bowl of water before he turns his attention back to his friends. “It was fine. Kind of weird. He wasn’t as much of a dick.”

“Maybe he just flips a coin in the mornings to decide how to act?” Dimmock shrugs and makes himself comfortable on Greg’s bed, leaning back against the headboard and putting his feet up.

Anderson nods along in agreement. “Or maybe he just doesn’t like you and he’s hoping to confuse you enough that you’ll stay away.”

“Why do you two even care so much?” Greg laughs and shakes his head. “I mentioned he’s kind of attractive _once_ and you all fuckin’ jumped on it.”

“Greg. There’s training, sleeping, and eating.” Sally sits down on Dimmock’s bed, just next to Greg’s. “We need _something_ more entertaining to do. Unfortunately for you, that wound up being playing matchmaker for you and that handler, whether you like it or not. So stop whining and tell us some more about dinner.”

Greg rolls his eyes. “You three are creepy fucks. There really isn’t anything to say. Honestly. I sat, we said hello to one another, and he wasn’t as rude as he was at first, but he was by no means friendly either. That’s it. Nothing more to say.”

“Be that way, Lestrade. We’re just trying to be good friends, that’s all. Oh, hey, I heard tomorrow we’re working with some sniper rifles!” Anderson sits next to Sally and just like that, the subject has been changed.

Just as well, too, because for the first time since Goldfish had chewed up Mycroft’s trousers, Greg feels less like he’s chasing after a conquest and more like… like he wants to talk and actually get to know him. He’s genuinely interested in finding out some more about Mycroft, all the stupid little things. Like what it had been like growing up with an agent for a mother or how long he’d wanted to be a handler. When he’d decided that being a field agent was a rubbish position or if he had any siblings already working for Kingsman. It’s definitely not a ‘shag you once and walk away’ type of feeling. Greg blames his friends and their incessant matchmaking, but no amount of blaming changes the fact that it’s a very, very unpleasant feeling.

 

 

\---

 

 

 

The next few weeks are absolutely brutal. Five recruits go out in that time, thankfully through elimination and not death. It’s down to Greg and his friends, Jim Moriarty, and Sebastian Moran. It’s just a countdown until Moriarty is gone, really, because the man is more the type to run the show than get his hands dirty. It’s common knowledge among the recruits that Moriarty and Moran are fucking and that Moran is essentially Moriarty’s puppet. Wherever Moriarty went, Moran was sure to follow like a lost little pup. Greg is betting on Moriarty going out sooner rather than later and Moran quitting training to scamper after him. Of course, that leaves Greg’s competition to just his friends, but he’d rather face up against them than Moran.

Their days are taken up by training and studying. Their meal times become increasingly irregular and they cross paths with the handlers in training less and less. When they do, though, Greg always sits with Mycroft for dinner. It’s become such commonplace, that his friends have even stopped teasing him about it. It’s just the norm now. When the stars happen to align in their favor and Greg and Mycroft cross paths at dinner, they sit together and chat. It’s a strange sort of chatting, though, in that they talk and talk and talk all through dinner, but they still don’t know much about each other. They’re friends, brought together by the sympathies that come up from training under the same spy organization, but they don’t know much about each other.

The most they talk about is Kingsman and their training regimes, sharing stories of their respective groups. Greg knows all the gossip among the handlers and Mycroft knows every bit of scandal among the agent recruits. They never really talk about their life before training, though, never about their homes or families. Greg’s begun to suspect that maybe they’ll never actually move past small talk about their training. Granted, Greg’s never actually tried breaching the subject, so he supposes he can’t complain too much.

After they spend the afternoon skydiving, Greg is pleased to see that Mycroft is already sitting at dinner when they get there. It’s the sort of break he needs just after spending a few hours jumping off of planes. Sally, Anderson, and Dimmock already know the drill and they bid him goodbye after they’ve gotten their food. Greg takes his tray and heads to go sit down across from Mycroft.

“Hello,” Mycroft looks up at him and gives him a small smile. “Eventful day? I heard they took you out on the jets.”

“They did. It… wasn’t fun. If I wasn’t sure before, now I’m absolutely positive that falling out of planes isn’t something I’d ever do of my own free will. I like having both feet on the ground, thank you very much,” Greg laughs.

Mycroft smirks a little and Greg just _knows_ that he’s going to tease him about handlers being better than agents. Again. It’s become a running joke of sorts between them. “See? I’ve never had to skydive because I’m in a _respectable_ profession.”

“Git. I was tricked, you see. Didn’t do much but run and lift weights the first few weeks. Spent the last few months getting us all full of that false sense of security. And then boom! They’re tossing us off planes. Wouldn’t have done it if this is what they’d started out with this.” Greg sighs a little as he thinks back to how long ago training had started and how long it’s been since he’s seen his family. It seems about as good a way as any to start chatting about their lives before Kingsman, so after a moment’s pause, he brings it up. “Been a while, hasn’t it? Gotten over the worst of the homesickness, but I still miss it. Though I guess you don’t miss it as much. What with your mum working here and all.”

Mycroft pauses to think that over. “I’d already moved out before coming here. But I suppose I do miss the dependency of it all sometimes. Home is always so reliable. It’s maddening at times – it’s why I left. But I’ll admit that there are times when I get nostalgic about it. Given the choice, I wouldn’t give any of this up to go back. Not in a million years.”

“Yeah. I miss it, but… I wouldn’t go back either. The home I miss isn’t really the one I’d be going back to, either way. We lost a lot during V-Day. My father and two of my younger siblings. It… It sucked.” The worst of the grief has already been soothed by time, but he still misses them terribly and he can’t imagine going back to a home without them.

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft sympathizes. “My family didn’t suffer any losses, thankfully. A few acquaintances from university, however. Political science majors aren’t exactly known for their astounding physical prowess.”

“Politics, huh? I can see you as a politician. The nasty type whose entire speeches are about taxes and the poor,” Greg teases, smiling. Even just a few moments talking about the casualties of V-Day is too long, so he jumps on the chance to change the subject.

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “If I had continued down the road of politics, I wouldn’t have been the type to be giving speeches. I would have been more of the type to run everything from the shadows. Make all the public officials my puppets.”

“Of course. Because why wouldn’t you? I’m beginning to think you were groomed to be a dictator or something when you grew up,”

“What do you know? I might have been. Boys at Harrow are taught to be terribly ambitions, you know.”

Greg’s absolutely giddy to get all these little tidbits about Mycroft out. It’s so nice to finally talk about something other than Kingsman that he doesn’t even mind when his time for dinner runs out and they have to part ways again. He has some more information to work with next time they have dinner together. Like, for example, merciless teasing about being a posh public school kid.

“I’ll see you next time, Myc. Try not to take over the world until then.”

“I make no promises, Gregory. Have a good evening.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aww what cuties
> 
> I can be found over on Tumblr at [dilestrade](http://dilestrade.tumblr.com/) or [unwins-boy](http://unwins-boy.tumblr.com/) for prompts, chatting, questions, and whatnot


	7. Maybe Boyfriends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Greg have the dreaded 'what are we?' talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *EDIT*: So someone pointed out that I forget to mention Moriarty having gotten booted out of training. I'll be going back and adding that soon. Sorry about any confusion ;__;

Five recruits goes down to three over the next two weeks. Anderson and Dimmock get eliminated in the same test and it had been a heartbreaking to say goodbye. They’d known that all but one of them would be eliminated, but they’d hoped that Moran would go first and it would be down to the four of them. Things rarely go to plan, unfortunately, and it’s between Greg, Sally, and Moran. Anderson and Dimmock leave them with strict instructions to boot Moran out no matter what. As if Greg didn’t want to beat him enough already, now he’s got the extra pressure of not wanting to let down his friends.

Life is strange when it's down to just three of them. They're working harder than they ever did before and Greg's more exhausted than ever, but they also have actual free time now. Time they get to spend watching the telly they've set up in a corner of the dorms or strolling through the grounds with their pets or even just napping to catch up on rest. They're working less hours in the day, but what they are doing is all more intense. More actual spy training than just the army boot camp type of running laps and lifting weights type of thing. Greg supposes that's because they've weeded out anyone who wasn't worth wasting resources for fancy training on.

The dorms feel different as well. They'd used to be more territorial when there were proper groups. Now it's just him and Sally versus Moran. Still two groups, technically, but not worth making hassles about shower times or floor space. Mostly, Sally and Greg keep to their own space outside of class and training. They're too close to finishing to get booted out over some stupid shit like fighting among recruits. But that doesn't make being in the dorms any better. It's just not the same without Dimmock and Anderson there and without Moriarty so they could all make snide comments of one another. For the most part, Greg and Sally are only ever in the dorms when they're sleeping. Their favorite thing to do outside of training is just roam on the track around the property. It's actually got a nice view when they're not being forced to run around it for hours at a time.

Goldfish bounds ahead of them, chasing butterflies and yanking up bits of grass. Greg laughs fondly as he watches Sally's Labrador run after him and start playing around. "I miss all the other dogs running around. And I'll miss you and Scamper when this is over. However it turns out."

"Oh, don't talk like that," Sally chastises, nudging her shoulder against his. "We don't talk to Anderson and Dimmock because we can't during our training. As soon as this is over, though? We're going to go right back to being friends. Just like we did these past few months."

They sit down at the side of the path, settling down on some grass and watching their dogs play. Greg picks at the blades of grass nervously, knotting them together and tearing them out. "You really think so? I mean... if one of us is a spy, can we even be friends anymore? Don't we got to go all like... secretive and stuff? Stop having friends out of the organization? And what if we don't even like each other! We only became friends because we liked bitching about everyone else to each other. Do we even got anything in common?"

"Calm down, Greg," Sally insists. She rolls her eyes and pats his knee. "We'll be friends. If nothing else, we can bond over being involved in this crazy thing. Even if just for a few months. I'll tell you guys all about my cool missions as a secret agent," she teases, smirking.

That last bit is enough to get him laughing. "Your cool missions? I'm sorry, I think you've got it a bit mixed up. I'm the one who's going to be going on all the badass missions. Don't worry, though. I'll be sure to bring back plenty of stories to share with you."

"That's not fair. You've already got a foot in whether you get the job or not. You've got that boyfriend of yours, remember?" Sally winks suggestively at him and Greg's ears turn red.

He goes back to picking at the grass, pretending to be extremely focused on the dogs to avoid looking at Sally. "He's not my boyfriend. I've told you that."

That is, unfortunately, the truth. And it's not for a lack of trying. It's hard to come up with good date ideas when they're not allowed to leave the property for personal reasons, but fuck, Greg has been trying. He has dinner with him every time they can, he's spent a few afternoons at the manor's library with him, they'd gone on a few walks together, he'd even tried going out on a picnic. A fucking picnic!

But Mycroft seems to be oblivious about it all. Or he might be purposefully pretending not to realize in order to avoid having to reject him. Greg's not sure which is worse. For whatever the reason, Mycroft's not catching on to his attempts at being romantic. Greg's not sure he can try any harder, given the circumstances. (Admittedly, he could always just straight out Mycroft if they could be boyfriends, but that feels too much like being back in primary school.)

"Oh don't get pouty. He'll be your boyfriend soon enough," she assures him. "It's inevitable with all the lovey eyes you two are always making at each other from across the cafeteria tables."

"We do not make lovey eyes at each other!"

"You do. You really do. Everyone sees it. Lamorak even asked me about it once!" She puffs out her chest and puts on a scowl as she deepens her voice into a pretty decent impression of Lamorak. "Oi, Donovan, that Lestrade boy... He's not a queer, is he? Been spending an awful lot of time with that Holmes boy. Tell him to cut it off! Our type don't interact with handlers. Certainly not ones of the same gender. We have enough of that unholiness at the table as it is."

Greg laughs and leans back on his elbows to look up at the clouds. "Is that a direct quote? Pretty spot on impression you got there. You can assure our dear Lamorak that he's got nothing to worry about. I'm not even sure Mycroft's gay. And if he is, he doesn't seem to be all that into me. I've been trying. Trust me. I've been trying."

"Oh, I know. I set up that picnic basket for you, remember? Trust me, though. He's into you. Everyone can see it! You two are just weird. We're in our twenties. We're not supposed to draw these things out for months. We're mean to see someone we fancy, maybe smile at each other once or twice, and then shag each other's brains out."

"Oh, so like you and Anderson, then?"

Sally shoves at his shoulder and Greg falls onto his back with a laugh. "Me and Anderson were friends with benefits. And that has nothing to do with you and Mycroft. Don't try to change the subject, Lestrade."

"You get to tease me about the blokes I fancy, I get to tease you about the ones you fancy. That's how it works, Sally," Greg smirks and gets up off the ground. He calls Goldfish over, wiping some grass off as he does. "Speaking of Mycroft, though, we're meeting in the library in a bit. So I'm headed off. See you tonight for sniping practices?"

"No, I think I'm going off to dinner with Anderson." She rolls her eyes. "Of course I'll be there, idiot. Have fun with your boyfriend."

Greg rolls his eyes and nudges at her thigh defensively before he leaves with Goldfish trailing loyally at his side. Mycroft's already at the library when Greg arrives, but that's no surprise. He's early to everything. Over the last few months, Greg's grown to suspect that he does it to be dramatic. Mycroft can never resist a bit of dramatics.

Greg pulls up a chair at one of the library tables and smiles at Mycroft, who's sitting with a thick volume placed down in front of him. "Hey, Myc. We were gonna go get some tea and go out for a walk tonight. Still on for that?"

Mycroft takes a while to respond as he wraps up what he's reading. Greg's grown to expect it and he doesn't even get annoyed anymore. When he's done, he takes off his reading glasses and places them aside before looking up at Greg. "Of course, Gregory. At 7, yes?" He pulls his time piece out of his suit pocket and glances at it before tucking it away again. "You're early," he notes with the hint of a smile. "A far cry from when we first started spending time together and you'd arrive to everything ten minutes late. At the earliest."

"What can I say? I'm a new man because of you, Mycroft. Teaching me to be punctual and proper and everything."

"Really? I would have pegged it more on the rigorous training schedule you've grown accustomed to. That's just me, though."

They both sit and study for a while, as they wait for the sun to start going down. Mycroft adores the sunsets. It had taken Greg ages to get that out of him and now that he knows, he's going to make ample use of it. Maybe a walk along the grounds at sunset is just what Greg needs to try to make Mycroft realize that Greg's trying to court him. Just as the sky's beginning to turn orange, they get up from their seats and head out to the trail. 

They walk along in comfortable silence for a while. Goldfish trots along ahead of them, eager to be outside again. It's nice, it's soothing, it's comfortable. So, of course, Greg has to go ruin it when he reaches out for Mycroft's hand and tries to hold it. Mycroft pulls away in a flash and burrows both his hands deep inside his pockets.

He shakes his head, not even looking over at Greg. "Perhaps it's best we focus on our training, no?"

"I... sorry," Greg mumbles, staring down at his boots. "Didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, Myc. I just though... Never mind."

"Our training is rigorous enough as it is, Gregory. No need to add any sort of distracting emotions to it all." Mycroft hesitates for a moment, before he adds, "And we'll both still be here when, ideally, you are an agent and I'm a handler."

"That's..." Greg blinks, pauses, thinks. "That's not a no, Myc. Right?"

Mycroft fights back a smile as he rolls his eyes. "Good evening, Gregory. I'll see you at dinner tomorrow."

He pats Greg's shoulder, giving it a squeeze before he strides off. Greg stares after him with a stupid grin on his face. It wasn't a no. Granted, it wasn't a yes, but Greg will take what he can get. A 'maybe after we're done with training' is far better than a 'no, what's wrong with you, stay away from me'. If he'd wanted to beat Moran before, now he's determined to fucking crush the guy. A job as a spy and a maybe boyfriend? That's all them motivation Greg needs.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They both want each other so obviously, but they're both too noble to do anything about it. Ugh, don't you hate people like that? :P  
> Just two more chapters to go! How exciting!


	8. First Kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit shorter than usual. Pure fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still haven't edited that bit from chapter 7, but I'm hoping to do so in December after NaNoWriMo is over. Again... really sorry about that!

Moran only lasts another two weeks. Moran leaving had been inevitable, really. The man borders on psychotic and there's no way anyone in their right mind would have trusted him with a gun and power in his hands. More than anything, Greg and Sally are surprised that he'd lasted so long. Inevitability or not, Greg had been absolutely vicious. A chance with Mycroft seemed to have been the last push to get him to the finish line.

Moran packs everything up with a glare, but leaves with little fanfare. They're done for the day, so Greg and Sally sit at their beds, watching Moran leave. They're silent for a while, both thinking about the same thing. They'll have to take one another out now. Only one of them can win and the chances are high that it'll wind up ugly, feelings hurt and friendships destroyed. Greg hopes it doesn't come to that, but he will if he has to.

He doesn't have anywhere to go if he loses this chance. Sure, he could go back and try for the Yard again, but there's no security in that plan and he's sure a six month disappearance won't reflect well on himself. No, Greg needs to get this position. There's no other way around it. He loves Sally, but Greg's not going to let her get ahead of him. He supposes she's probably thinking the same thing.

"I reckon it was always meant to come down to the two of us," Sally remarks, after the silence has grown to weight them down. "Dimmock talks too much, Anderson follows too much. If it was going to come down to one of us, it was always going to be you and me."

Greg hums thoughtfully and nods. "I think you're right there. You and me. That's how it was going to go down. If I had to pick anyone to go up against, it'd be you. I have a feeling you're going to put up a good fight."

"Oh, I will. And like I said, I'll be sure to share all my super spy stories with you," Sally teases, smiling.

Greg laughs and throws his pillow in her direction. "You wish, Donovan. I won't even send you any Snapchats of my missions Just because of that comment. So... we're cool?"

"Don't worry, Greg," Sally nods, tossing his pillow back at him. "We're fine."

Greg nods. He's grateful for that. While, of course, there's no guarantee that they'll actually still be all right with one another after this is all said and done, it's a nice reassurance to now that they'll at least try to stay friends. Greg will do what he needs to, but that doesn't mean he's keen on the idea of having to walk away from his friends. The four of them were friends forged in the fires of training and it's bad enough that their training is keeping him and Sally from talking to Anderson and Dimmock. He can't imagine losing them completely.

"I suppose you'll want to go tell your boyfriend?" Sally smirks, looking over at him.

"He's not my boyfriend," Greg grumbles. He'd made that very clear earlier. Their relationship, or lack thereof, is what's been pushing Greg the extra mile. As sheepish as he is to admit it, though... "I am meeting up with him, though. At five or so, we'd agreed. I'll see you tonight, yes?"

Sally rolls her eyes. "Of course you're meeting up with him. Because for all you insist he's not, you two are boyfriends in everything but name."

"Soon, hopefully. Soon." Greg smiled and stands up, calling Goldfsh over. The dog trots over loyally and Greg bids Sally a good afternoon before heading off in search of Mycroft.

It's become a common thing around the manor for Greg to be searching for Mycroft and he gets pointed in Mycroft's direction without ever having to open his mouth to ask. Greg finds Mycroft studying as usual and he drags him off outside to catch the last few remaining rays of sunshine.

Greg smiles at him and asks, "Have you heard the news, Mycroft?"

"I haven't heard anything, but going off your excitement and the way you're almost bouncing like Goldfish did as a puppy, well I'd wager a guess that Moran is gone." Mycroft looks over at him with an amused smirk.

"Aww, you could have at least pretended not to know. Given me the pleasure of telling you myself," Greg complains. "But yes. He's gone! Just me and Sally now. And soon it'll be just me. And then you'll let me take you out for a proper dinner and... I don't know, movies or something? Right?"

"You know, I never said that. All I'd commented on was the necessity of focusing on our training," Mycroft points out.

"Is that a no, then?"

"Not quite, no. Though you'll have to be more creative than dinner and a movie if you truly wish on trying to court me."

"Court you? Fuck, Myc, this isn't the Regency era," Greg laughs. Leave it to Mycroft to say things like that in all seriousness. "But I'll keep that in mind. Forgive me if I haven't put all that much thought into where I'm taking you out. I've been focusing on my training like you said. And I haven't seen the world outside the Kingsman property for ages."

"I'm sure you'll think of something, Gregory."

They find a nice looking tree and stop to sit under it. Goldfish lays down beside them, laying his head on Greg's lap as he settles down for a nap. Greg scratches his ears gently and then stretches languidly on the lawn. He pats the grass down next to him, an invitation for Mycroft to lay down as well. He doesn't expect him to, of course not. Mycroft's all prim and proper and probably worried about grass stains on his suit. However, to Greg's utter surprise, Mycroft lays down next to him on the grass. With a grimace and ridiculous care not to lay on any muddy patches, but Mycroft lays down nonetheless.

Greg turns his head to grin at him. "Have I corrupted you already, Myc? Look at you. Laying down on the grass without so much as a blanket to protect you. I'm proud, Myc, I really am."

Mycroft turns to face him and rolls his eyes. "Just this once," he warns. "And only because we're celebrating that you've reached the final two."

"And what will you do when I've become an agent? You'll have to do something even wilder." Greg grins, already thinking up several possibilities. Most of which Mycroft would never actually do, Greg knows.

He raises an eyebrow and gives him one of his trademark 'you're being ridiculous, Gregory' looks, though the effect is somewhat lost from being laid out on the grass with him. "You're awfully confident that you're going to get the spot. I do hope you're not getting cocky. That's the easiest way to make sure you fail your tests."

"I'm not cocky, Myc. I'm confident. There's a difference," Greg insists, turning again. He crosses his arms behind his neck, resting his head on them as he stares up at the clouds. "I mean, Goldfish tried to set us up way back when training started. I think it'd be cruel to keep him waiting longer than necessary."

"Set us up?" Mycroft snorts out a laugh. "He wasn't trying to set us up. He was trying to ruin my suit. Those were my favorite trousers, you know? Now you're trying to use him to seduce me? Gregory, mentioning your dog's destructive tendencies is probably the last thing you want to be doing right now."

"Fine, fine, Forget I said anything. I'll even send him away!" Greg sits up and grabs a nearby rock. He tosses it as far as he can. "Goldfish, go on. Go fetch, boy!" Goldfish looks up lazily at the mention of his name, looks in the direction of the rock, and then lays his head back down with an annoyed bark. Greg looks over at Mycroft and shrugs. "I tried. Not my fault he wants us together so bad. Look at his puppy dog eyes, Myc. How could you say no to that cute little face?"

"Goodness. You're stubborn, aren't you? My saying no is just spurring you on, isn't it?"

Greg just smirks sheepishly in reply.

"Come here," Mycroft says, gesturing Greg closer. Greg shifts towards him and Mycroft sits up. It happens so quickly Greg's not even fully aware it's happening until it's over. Mycroft leans over and presses their lips together. It's brief and chaste and over almost as soon as it begins. "There. Will that hold you off until our training is done? Will Goldfish's poor, little heart not be broken now?"

Greg is caught so off guard that all he can do is nod dumbly and get out a soft, "Uh huh."

Mycroft smiles, reaching over and giving Greg's hand a squeeze. "I'll see you around, Gregory. Go back to your dorms. You and your friend deserve some time to just be friends before you have to focus on getting the job." Mycroft smiles and gives Greg another quick kiss before he stands up to leave.

Greg laughs like an idiot as he scratches Goldfish’s ears. He’s on top of the world right now. One kiss isn’t much, but it’s something and Greg’s willing to work with something. There’s just one recruit left. Just Sally to outshine and he’ll be set. He’ll have the job and the boy. Greg will have everything he’s ever wanted. Just one more and it’ll be perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more chapter to go!


	9. Epilogue

"Welcome to Kingsman, Gawain."

The last few weeks for Greg had been like a training montage in his head. Eye of the Tiger had been constantly playing in his head along with every other cheesy fight song from equally cheesy 80s movies. Along with one or two ridiculous love ballads whenever he'd tried to come up with a date idea for him and Mycroft. Here he was, having won out over Sally and newly knighted, but still without the slightest idea of where they would take one another. Greg's all decked out in his brand new suit and glasses, looking downright spiffy, if he says so himself. He's dressed perfectly for a nice date out somewhere, his only problem is, he just can't figure out where that somewhere should be.

There's more to earning a spot at Kingsman's table than just passing the final test and getting a pat on the shoulder. There's a mountain of paperwork he needs to sign. About a dozen confidentiality agreements, a few acknowledging all the risks associated with working at Kingsman, some about the benefits he'll be receiving as an agent. It takes the better half of a day to read through and sign everything. Greg's itching to leave by the time he nears the bottom of the stack of papers to sign. He wants to see Mycroft, wants to kiss him again and take him out on a date. Something grand and spectacular. The least they could do after having waited all these months was have something over the top as their first date.

He finishes signing his soul away to Kingsman and he's dismissed for the rest of the day, Greg bolts out of there to find Mycroft. He finds Mycroft down in the living quarters, a rarity. Mycroft is only ever down in his dorm when he's asleep. Mycroft looks up when Greg walks in and starts to dismiss him before he realizes it's just Greg. Mycroft hadn't even recognized him in his posh new suit.

"I heard the good news," Mycroft tells him, smiling. He stands up and goes to give Greg a hug. It's awkward - Mycroft's most definitely not a hugger - but Greg appreciates the effort. "You look different. Good different. Suits look good on you. Should have worm them before. Might have gone on that date with you earlier, Gregory."

"Recruits have a uniform, Myc. Don't hold my uniform against me. And it's Gawain now, actually," Greg reminds him with a proud smirk. He and Sally had gotten a chance to say goodbye before she'd left. They're on good terms, or at least, better terms than they'd expected to be in, so Greg's allowing himself to show off how proud he is.

"My apologies, Gawain." Mycroft rolls his eyes. "Let's go out for a walk. I hate this dorm."

"We can plan out our date. You only have a little longer left until you've graduated from your training program, right?"

"Next Thursday, yes. We can go out that very Friday, if you'd like?"

"Sounds perfect."

Greg and Mycroft head out to the walking paths they've grown so acquainted with these last few weeks. Nothing's changed, but everything feels different. It still the two of them just going off to escape the manor, even if just for a few minutes, and give Goldfish a chance to get some air. They're still just Greg and Mycroft. From one day to the next, nothing's changed. Greg's an agent now and Mycroft's one week away from being a handler, but they haven't actually done anything with the titles yet. Just Greg and Mycroft. That's all.

But Greg feels different. Maybe it's the suit. Maybe it's the new glasses. Maybe though, and  he's got his money on this one, it's how they feel so much more like Greg _and_ Mycroft now. They've yet to go out on a proper date yet, but they'd spent all this time waiting for this moment to come. It's rather anticlimactic, really, but there's no denying that feeling of different.

"With this new suit, I'm all dressed up to go off somewhere posh for our first date," Greg remarks, smiling proudly as he runs a hand down his tie to smooth the material. "You'd like somewhere posh, right? I mean... you're the epitome of gentleman."

"We can go wherever," Mycroft shrugs. "I don't care where it is. So long as you're there. Admittedly, I wouldn't mind if you were in your suit when we go out. You look pretty amazing in it. Absolutely dashing."

"I have you laying down on grass and staining up your shirts and you have me wearing suits. I'd say we're pretty even, yeah?" Greg smiles.

He tugs Mycroft over to their usual tree and they sit. Greg pulls his phone out - he actually has a phone again now that he's done with training! - and plans out the rest of the week. A meeting with Arthur tomorrow, his first table meeting the day after that, seeing his family again this weekend (and coming up with some excuse before then), and then his date with Mycroft the upcoming Friday. With Mycroft's help, Greg gets it all planned out and he can't help but get a wonderful that he's planning out the beginning of the rest of a very exciting life.

 

 

\----

 

 

They'd gone out the Friday as promised for dinner at a little French place in the city and a showing of Much Ado About Nothing after their dinner. Everything had gone perfect and simple as that, Greg and Mycroft were sweet on each other. It had been a long time coming and they'd meshed together well. They were boyfriends and once Greg started going on regular missions, Mycroft always served as his handler as well. And somewhere along the line, they developed a habit of having terribly inconvenient moments over the comms.

\---

_"Watch out! You're reckless, has anyone ever told you that? You're going to get yourself killed, Gawain. Loving you is going to give me a heart attack."_

"This isn't the time, Myc. Wait... Did you just say you love me? Holy fuck, Myc, I love you too."

\---

_"To your left, Gawain. Down that hallway. By the way, I cleared out a drawer for you. Would you consider moving in?"_

"Not the time, Myc. But yes."

\---

_"Stop using up all your grenades! My God. You're absolutely ridiculous. And speaking of ridiculous, you left your wet towel on the bed this morning. Again. I've told you about it five times already. Is it that hard to pick up?"_

"Sorry! But, Myc. Not the time!"

\---

_"Anderson and Donovan have just announced their engagement. Oh, that bomb you need to defuse is underneath the floorboard at the left corner of the room, Gawain. Anyways, they've invited us to the party. I've said yes for us. And Dimmock's called to start planning a stag already. I told him you'd get back once you're home from Russia."_

"I wasn't aware you're my personal secretary now. Shouldn't you be focused on walking me through this bomb? Not really the time, Myc. But yes, of course we'll going. Give them my congratulations."

\----

_"I've been thinking. We've been together three years. I think we should go down to the courthouse and make it official. What do you think? Oh and there's some goon rounding the corner to your left. Best watch out for that."_

"Thanks for the warning, Myc. Also... Is that your way of asking me to marry you?"

_"Yes. Yes it is."_

"Not really the time, Myc... But, yes! Of course it's yes."

\----

_"If you bruise up your face and show up to our wedding all banged up, I swear, I'm getting a divorce the moment we come home from our honeymoon."_

"Myc! When I'm trying to avoid getting kidnapped and interrogated? Really not the time."

\---

_"Gawain, I have good news and I have bad news."_

"Well, start with the good, I suppose. And I hope these are both related to the mission. We've talked about this."

_"Just... Trust me. It's important. Good news is it looks like you'll be home from your mission by tomorrow. The bad news... the surrogate, she went into labor this morning. The baby's likely to get here tonight."_

"What? But... It's not time!"

_"I now, Gregory. I'm sorry. We'll bring you home soon. He won't even be a day old yet."_

"Well, what are you still doing on the comms? Get some other handler and go be there when our son comes into the world!"

\---

_"Gawain, I really need you to wrap up that mission and come home."_

"Is everything all right?"

_"Oliver's teething. He's always crying! You're the only one who can calm him. Please. I need the sleep. You need to come home."_

"Myc, God, not the time. You can't use the comms to complain about our son's teething."

_"Just come home."_

"I'll be home soon, Myc. Now get back to actually handling me!"

\---

_"Good job on that intel extract, Gawain. Excellent as always. Now get back home. I love you."_

"Not an appropriate time to share I love you's, you know? But I love you too, Myc."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really liked that ending bit. Favorite thing I've written in this fic, actually lol Thanks for sticking around for this! If you liked my writing and would like to read more, I'm currently in the middle of publishing a Winter Soldier AU for Kingsman titled Come Marching Home. If you prefer Sherlock, you can read my Floral Tattoos series, which will hopefully be getting an addition very soon!


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